


another avenue

by Lady_Kaos



Series: golden gods 'verse [3]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Road to El Dorado (2000)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Fix-It of Sorts, Multi, One Shot Collection, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2020-04-12 00:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 109,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Kaos/pseuds/Lady_Kaos
Summary: "Tulio, they actually think we're gods!"Because, at one point, they might have been. And now they might be so again.Or: all the ways the movie might have gone off the rails, if Miguel and Tulio were actually what people thought they were.





	1. unknown gods

**Author's Note:**

> Stand alone one-shot series here, folks. Basically all the ways our idiots could screw up canon if their names were not always Miguel and Tulio ; )
> 
> Because my muse takes me down weird paths, this can literally be called AUs of an AU. No need to read original fic that spawned these. These are meant to stand on their own. And I'm open to suggestions for more ; )

Chel hasn't had much room for thinking since she decided to snatch a gold idol from the Dual Gods' unoccupied temple and run for it. She's been _a little busy,_ okay? Running for her life, running into three alleged gods, nearly losing her life at least, like, three or four times in the jumble.

When Tzekel-Kan orders her to reunite the golden head back to its body, she does so. Because, really, what else can she do but play along as a 'speaker for the gods?'

Chel doesn't know if these strangers are actually the Dual Gods and the Winged Serpent, but at this point she's not taking any chances. Because she ran into them at the right exact moment to save her life. Because the blue-eyed stranger that _reversed an impending volcanic eruption_ went along with her lie and spared her again. So she's gonna be the good little follower, and put that stupid head back where it belongs.

Not about to draw any more attention to herself, she avoids the grand front steps and takes the back entrance to the temple, the same one used by acolytes like herself for always keeping the gods' chambers ready for an impending arrival one thousand years in the making.

By the time she actually reaches the right room, it's too late. All three strangers, the two that look like men and the other like some sort of fat deer, are already inside examining their new quarters. Praying they haven't seen her, Chel ducks out of sight behind a column, and listens.

"Tulio," the sun-haired one, Miguel, says in delighted disbelief. "Tulio.  They actually think we're _gods."_

Chel sucks in a breath at the ensuing silence.

Then Tulio, her savior, bursts out laughing. "It's an entire city of suckers."

Something inside Chel, small and light as a soap bubble, pops at his derision, even as the rest of her nods in knowing cynicism.

 _"Tulio!"_ Miguel says sharply, and Chel is stricken again, when even the fat deer angrily strikes the stone floor with a hoof. "This city _believes_ in us. Really, truly believes. And you're just going to... what, throw it back in their faces?"

Tulio heaves a weary sigh. "Please, Miguel. Not our people, not our problem. If the true gods of this place are willing to tolerate us for a little bit, great. We load up on the gold, be gracious guests, and then get the hell out of here."

"Get out of here?" Miguel echoes in disbelief. "Tulio, it's so clearly our destiny to _be here!_ The map, the tide washing us right at the start of the trail, running into our first follower--"

"She's a _thief,_ Miguel!" Tulio snaps, and Chel grips the column. "She dragged us into her con to save her own skin. We're _nobodies_ here, remember? Anyone who actually believed in any of us, including the gods damned horse, is a thousand years dead. None of our stories made it this far. None of our followers have seen this city. We stay here, we're worse than dead. Because being absorbed into someone else's story is _such a pleasant way to go!"_

If these two idiots are supposed to be con artists, then they don't make any sense. If they're not, then, well...

Chel takes in a deep breath, plasters on her most pleasing grin, and takes a leap of faith. "Hello."

The two guys whirl around with stifled squeals of surprise. Gods of dignity, they are not. The horse(?) flicks a knowing ear in her direction and does not pretend to be startled by her presence.

While Tulio draws up his arms, Miguel graces her with a smile that positively lights up the chambers. "Oh, hello... Well, I don't believe we actually caught your name."

Chel bows just so. From the fringe of her hair she catches their eyes following her curves. Again that nascent bit of something flickers. "Chel, my lord. I am called Chel."

The horse swishes his tail expectantly. Miguel happily waves a hand in his direction. "Oh, he doesn't talk much, but he's called Altivo. The Lordly."

Tulio crosses his arms. A dark shadow crosses over his blue eyes. Chel wonders if he really has the power to make even Lady Raima think twice about erupting, and shivers. "How much of that did you hear?"

"All of it," she says succinctly, because hell if she's lying now. She bites her lip. "You three... not from around here?"

"Nope," Miguel says brightly. He jabs a thumb back east, where legend says the Dual Gods first descended on the Feathered Serpent to raise up a new, golden world from the ruins of the last. "We're from past the sunrise, and then some."

"And you're all..." How to phrase it without getting smote for blasphemy?

Altivo blinks cryptically back. Miguel nods brightly. All right then.

It is Tulio who groans, rolls his eyes, and draws a knife from his shirt. He runs the blade across his arm.

Chel's heart sinks at the red that wells up from the cut, because gods don't bleed. Then her eyebrows climb into her hair when the wound weaves itself shut.

"Oh," she says softly.

Then doubt rears its ugly head. It's a small trick. She's seen Tzekel-Kan perform far more terrifying feats of magic.

She squints up at them again, tries to remember what she felt the first heartbeat she saw them, the same wonder that made Chima call back his warriors and even Tzekel-Kan accept them at face value.

Their faces...

Chel takes both Miguel and Tulio by the sleeves. She leads them to the closest icon of the Dual Gods, depicted in all their golden glory. They too cock their heads and squint.

Miguel scratches thoughtfully at his beard. Tulio's hand rubs suspiciously at his sharp chin, the exact shape as the front-riding of the Dual Gods.

"Well," Tulio mutters. "That's... ominous."

Suddenly he and Miguel turn toward each other, clasping each other's shoulders and peering deep into their eyes. Chel's breath hitches in envy as they feel the other's faces with an intimate tenderness she has not seen since between her own parents. They pull away with sighs of relief.

"A thousand years," Tulio murmurs. "And still the same." He frowns up at the stele that so clearly depicts his visage. "But..."

 _"Ne ton Agnoston,"_ Miguel whispers, in a tongue Chel does not know. Then, in a new cadence equally strange, _"Sei deo, sei deivae sac."_

 _In the name of the Unknown God,_ a part of Chel, dark and deep, intones. _Either for a god, or a sacred goddess."_

As one they turn toward her. "Hey, Chel," Tulio tries. "Um, who exactly does this city believe us to be?"

"The Dual Gods," she says. "And the Feathered Serpent, the heavenly messenger."

Altivo nods, and that is all there is to it. His human-shaped companions are not as satisfied.

"The Crocodile God was a greedy god. Even when blood flowed like water, and people died by the hundreds, he demanded more sacrifices, more than the world could take. And so the Fourth World ended." Chel keeps her eyes trained on the golden stele, too afraid to look at those beside her. "Yet, before the Jaguar God could raise a new world dark and ruthless as his jungle, the Dual Gods bore down upon the Feathered Serpent to raise one of their own. It is a good world. Then the Golden Gods made gold, brilliant as themselves, so that man could offer up tribute that almost pleases the gods as much as blood. So dawned the Age of the Serpent."

"Their names?"

"No names."

"...Their family?"

Chel shrugs. "The Dual Gods came, made the world, and left. Manoa's been waiting for their return ever since."

Miguel beams. "Manoa," he murmurs tenderly, as if naming his firstborn child. "I knew this place couldn't just be El Dorado."

 _The Golden One,_ Chel's mind supplies again. She snorts. "Well, the gold's a big part of it.... But you'd already know that, wouldn't you?"

The three share a look and gamely nod back at her. Tulio suppresses a smirk. "Oh, do we ever."

She arches a skeptical brow. "Like you already know the proper rituals for blessing a tribute, the holiest days of the calendar, and all about Xibalba?"

"Chel," Miguel says gently. "It doesn't work like that."

Right. Paquini couldn't have known all of Manoa's rituals either, when Chel's ancestors were first taken as slaves from their homeland. Only when the Golden People had realized how much they had loved Paquini's wine and craved the secrets of her fermentations had she been adopted into the city's pantheon and traditions.

Chel's lips twitch with a smile. "Well, you guys have been gone for a thousand years, and you _did_ send me a vision to guide you here."

So guide them she does, in the scarce time they have before Manoa expects them to emerge for the evening feast. She tries handing them the proper clothing to wear. In the blink of an eye the wraps are out of her hands, and the gods are garbed as Manoa expects them to be.

Chel tries not to sag. Peeping at naked gods is probably grounds for a blinding, if not a smiting, anyway.

The gods notice her disappointment. And return it with smoldering expressions that make her want to tackle them right then and there.

"Later," Miguel vows.

Tulio scoffs. "We've kept them waiting a thousand years. They can wait a few hours more."

"My lords," Chel tries, but that lingering sense of shame is fading fast. "You can't..."

"We can. We shall. And it'll be glorious."

_"Tulio!"_

"What, Miguel? You want. I want it. So very, _very_ much." The god looks back to her, apprehension suddenly curling in his shoulders. "Chel, do _you_ want this? Because-"

"Yes!" she blurts out immediately, propriety be damned. "But-"

"But nothing." Miguel offers a golden hand, his skin seeming to glow despite the growing gloom. "This is our destiny, our fate. So long as you want it, it's yours too."

Chel gives into temptation, and seizes fate by both hands, and drags out her gods to their adoring public.

* * *

The people are terrified. Tulio fixates on their too-wide smiles and desperation of their dances like he once did the weakness of the flock. He's supersensitive to it. Long numbed to the will of the people, he's rip off the old scar tissue, and the wounds beneath are raw.

It's so much he almost shies away from them, and goes running back through the jungle for that damned rowboat. Before he was forgotten, he was feared as a demon. He's never, ever enduring that again.

But there's something _more_ there too. It's not wishful thinking. Chel's total faith is a bright beacon at his back. In the dark doubts of the crowd before them are sparks. All they have to do is fan the flames.

It's not random chance that brought their boat to these shores, anymore then that little armadillo's been dogging their every step since. The gods of this land have smiled upon their arrival with sunny skies, have recalled a volcanic eruption. Their very faces are already engraved before their altars.

In Spain the people are filled with just one God and His Son. Manoa already hold so many deities close to their hearts. There's room for a few more, if they can convince them why.

So Tulio and Miguel put on their best, brightest smiles and stride down the steps of their temple to greet this city like prodigal sons.

Chief Tannabok's wife and the children in her arms are the first apprehensive mortals they encounter. Tulio goes in to tickle the chin of a boy before deciding better of it. He was a father once, after all, even if the shades of his children are centuries gone. He knows an oncoming bite when he sees one.

From thin air the giver of good things pulls a clay doll, like the ones his daughters once dressed in tiny clothes. With a grin the boy snatches it from his hands.

It's a small thing, little better than a magic trick. It's his first miracle in a millennium.

Chief Tannabok's own face splits into a grin at his son's delighted laugh. To Tulio he offers his first true tribute.

Tulio takes a sip of mulled wine, somewhat more sour than the grapes of the east and yet dripping in decadence and a power far more potent. With a grin he passes the bowl to Miguel. They raise their heads and imbibe together.

"More!" Miguel laughs.

Chief Tannabok obliges. The casket never empties, no matter how many bowls are taken from it, passed from the gods to their followers. So long as the crowd is thirsty, the flow never stops. The undiluted alcohol eats away at their inhibitions and urge their gods onward.

Miguel prances barefoot across hot coals as he once did the surface of the sun. Tulio glides over the fire without ever touching the ground. Altivo rears, and the winds rise with him, flaring embers up into a firestorm that harmlessly whirls above the crowd.

With Manoa's fervor surges their faith. Tulio's feet grow lighter and lighter still.

And then they are _free._

Millenium fall away like a bad dream. His swagger drops into the frenzied, rustic dances of his youth in distant Arcadia, before he swirls into the flourishes of Spanish and then into a graceful new style he has never danced before, yet knows like the stories of this land.

His partner sings his joy. The first notes are dissonant, in Hittite and Luwian and languages lost long before the first utterances of anything close to Greek. Then they flow like honey from Greek, west into Etruscan and Latin, then down through the ages into Castilian and then the tongue of their new home.

Together they weave their exaltation into a spell, and drag their followers down into madness and magic.

* * *

For a heartbeat the mortal guises of her gods fall away, and Chel _sees._

Altivo is ancient, shrouded in the fog of time. She glimpses wild hunts and herds long dead, the thunder of hooves and whole armies. There is the wind and the wild stallion and the wild-eyed man that urge her onward.

Her gods are younger, their forms more clear. One is tall and lithe, with unbound hair that floats freely by his feet and eyes like the sun. The other is darker, more rugged, with wicked eyes and a wicked smirk.

She does not know their names. She does not want to. She does not want to know these gods as they were; one cruel and capricious, the other jealous and rapacious. Whomever gods they were, they are not her own.

Her gods smile like the sun and the stars. Their eyes are green as spring and blue as the sky. They are old and cowardly, liars and lechers, and so much more.

They are Miguel and Tulio. They are the Dual Gods. They are hers.

Her gods extend their hands to her. Already Chel can see the songs and stories winding around them, those that will bind them to this land for eternity.

With a grin, she takes them both, and weaves her fate to theirs.

* * *

Tzekel-Kan's first conscious action is to groan at his throbbing headache, then nearly wretch at the smell of sex, sour sweat and sour wine. He blearily cracks open his eyes to the first bloody streaks on the horizon.

The dawn sacrifice. He should have been up all night preparing the rites. Now it's dawn, Chima is snoring beneath him, and there's a whole huddle of his acolytes heaped over them like puppies. Naked, debauched puppies.

Fear drains the fatigue from his bones. Tzekel-Kan forces himself out of the huddle. His hungover followers, dead to the world, respond with only groans and mumbles.

Swearing darkly under his breath, and stained in things his mind refuses to linger on, Tzekel-Kan frees himself and stands up to-

"Good morning!"

Between one blink and the next, Lord Miguel is there, beaming and radiant in the growing dawn. Tzekel-Kan falls against the naked heap, and then forward into full prostration.

"Forgive me, my lord!" he begs. "We are wretched and imperfect and could not bear your wonders without dragging them into perversion!"

Lord Miguel clears his throat awkwardly. Tzekel-Kan blinks at the paradox, and even more so when the god picks him up a ragdoll to set him on his feet. "Um, yes. Sorry about that, Tzekel-Kan. Lord Tulio and I were... enthusiastic last night. Enthralling, even. It _has_ been a thousand years since we last cut loose."

From thin air Lord Miguel pulls a bolt of cloth. Tzekel-Kan eagerly takes it to cover his shame. "Lord Miguel... you intended to do... _this?"_

"Er, yes and no. A mania's a mania." His emerald eyes rove over the naked heap of the Jaguar God's cult, Tzekel-Kan's followers and guards and acolytes. "And your group looks like they really needed a proper catharsis, so to speak."

"If you say so, my lord," the high priest agrees wearily. "But what about the dawn ceremony I promised you?"

Lord Miguel chuckles. "Probably should wait for the next dawn, old boy. Tulio's never been a morning god and she's... Well. They could use a day to get their bearings."

The golden god blesses Tzekel-Kan's groggy followers with clothes and clear heads before he winks away. The high priest morbidly wonders how many other Manoans he's going to rescue from utter humiliation.

After many hours of bathing and prayer to scour the worst of the shame away, Tzekel-Kan pulls himself together by auspicious noon. He ascends the temple steps to once more grovel before the gods, to recover his shame in their eyes and hopefully discover exactly how they prefer their human sacrifices.

He finds the gods expecting his arrival. On the steps Lord Altivo prances around him in neighing laughter before dissolving on the wind. Lord Miguel's earnest smile illuminates the throne room. The smirking edge to Lord Tulio's sets beads of sweat down Tzekel-Kan's back.

In the third golden throne, nestled between theirs as if it has been there all along, sits a goddess resplendent in red, gold adorning her arms and ears as if she were born to it. Her face is the one that, just yesterday, he had fully intended to sacrifice for her theft.

Lady Chel smiles beatifically. "Oh, Tzekel-Kan," she calls warmly. "What brings you here?"


	2. an eternal adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tulio, did you ever imagine it would end like this?"
> 
> It didn't, even when they leaped from starvation in a stranded rowboat into apathetic seas.
> 
> There is no death, even for gods. Only transformation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a bit of musing from my original fic.

If there are gods in these deep blue waters, they are primal and fickle things of the fathomless ocean, birthed by those who rightfully feared the unpredictable nature of the sea. There is no family, no friendly faces, to be found within their waves. Miguel knows in his heart of hearts any sailors who once hailed their pantheon never made it so far into the sunset.

Their calls for mercy are answered only by the silence of an apathetic expanse. They are wracked by storms and drift for days on end in doldrums. Their food and water evaporate.

Once an exhausted sea gull, the only one they've seen, lands upon their oar before its heart gives out. Before they can reel their godsend in a black-eyed shark erupts from the deep to devour it in a single bite.

All three of them weep. Miguel knows his auguries still. This gull is not a portent of land, but so far from home it had dared land on a strange vessel only to die and be swallowed by the sea.

None of them have the power to make their fates otherwise. Altivo is a horse. Tulio's wings have withered away. Starved and sun-beaten, Miguel dreams of when he became a dolphin and guided the Cretan colonists to Delphi, and yearns for them again.

Feverishly, he thinks if he slips overboard and gives himself to the sea, that a part of himself will forever linger to frolic on the waves and follow in the wake of ships for human contact it would forever crave. But that would mean abandoning Tulio, who has stuck to his side and held him together like glue.

If they are to die on this unforgiving sea, they die together.

And, yet...

"Polytropus," Miguel whispers hoarsely, through his parched throat.

Tulio shudders. "Miguel," he rasps, "what are you--"

"Polytropus," he murmurs once more, in the tongues of their birth. "My Mechaniotes, my Diactorus. My Charmophron. Come. Come with me."

_Many-turning. My trickster, my guide. My give of joy._

Tulio swallows thickly, for they haven't fresh water in days, gaze flickering in dread to the water lapping at the hull. "It's suicide."

Not that there's shame in it, for them. They have no souls to rot for all eternity from the one sin a mortal can never atone from. They are bound to older traditions, where it was once understandable to escape inevitable shame or enslavement in the wake of crushing defeat. They've held on the longest, but they would be far from the first in the family to take the gentle way out.

Miguel shakes his head. "Not dead, just different. Together, Tulio. I promise."

It's not prophecy, it's desperate, threadbare hope. It's all they are, in the end.

Altivo snorts, wearily raising his head from the prow. He scowls at them through the horse's form time and forgetting have forced him into.

"Jump or don't jump," Tulio spits. "I don't know where we're going, but it's anywhere but here."

The stallion surveys empty, apathetic seas, no land or guiding breeze in sight. He sighs his surrender.

Miguel and Tulio lock hands, as they gaze into oblivion. "Well, partner. It was nice knowing you."

"You know me," Miguel corrects. "You'll know me still."

Together, they strain against their dying forms and leap into the deep.

Their wake ripples out through the quiet waves. A heartbeat after, an even larger splash sounds as Altivo springs after them.

The empty boat sits on still seas.

Then, stirs, as the waves laugh and winds rear up.

* * *

 Today, the sea is unwelcoming. There's no winds for the sail, so Wana and Kulo do the rowing themselves. Their nets drag up only seaweed and dripping water.

"Lord Cassipa's spiteful tears!" Wana curses. "What would it take to get some freaking fish and-- AH!"

As he brings up yet another empty net, the sea stares back. Wana falls back into the boat with a squeal, as his big brother surges to his side. Chattering laughter echoes in their wake.

Kulo snorts. "They're dolphins, you idiot."

Wana peers over the prow for himself. And frowns. "Weird-looking ones, aren't they?"

One's sleek and elegant, a shimmering silver streaked sunny gold. It has eyes green as the jungle. The other has a blunter snout, black-and-white. Beneath the white patches Wana first mistakes for its eyes are two smaller irises, blue as the sea.

Kulo shrugs, gathering up the nets to try their luck elsewhere. "Still dolphins. Probably scared all the fish away."

Wana frowns down at the dolphins and their unsettling, intelligent eyes. Their mom grew up more inland, closer to the golden city. River dolphins are tricky. They like to hide in the murky depths and lead fishermen astray if they're feeling cheeky. If they're feeling hungry or lusty, they'll take a human form to coax a victim to the river edge, and drag them down.

But these are marine dolphins, open and honest in their mischief.

"Hey," Wana calls to them. "Do you know where the good fishing grounds are?" Aware of Kulo's withering look and the dolphins' piercing stares, he swallows his shame and makes his bargain. "If you show us, we'll give you some of the catch as tribute."

"Are you _insane_?" Kulo hisses to him. "Because you just prayed to _dol-"_

The shimmering one cheerfully sprays him in the face. The darker dolphin butts his head against their boat. It's barely seaworthy, fit only for the shores on a calm day. Kulo swallows as their boat lurches beneath them. Suddenly they realize how very far away the beach is, and how fickle the sea.

"The best part as tribute, my lords," Kulo squeaks out. 

The dolphins fall back, whistling in clear invitation to follow. Finally the winds rise, warm and welcoming. Wana leans the sail into the breeze, and follows. There is another shape in the cresting waves, white as the sea-foam. He smiles, at ease they've placed their faith in a benevolent power and not demons about to lead them to a watery grave.

There are ready winds and gentle waves to guide them into a cove the brothers had no idea existed. The crystal clear waters teem with fish. They dip their nets into the water, and can't help but laugh when the dolphins drive the schools into their waiting trap. Catch after catch is hauled up onto their boat. They both remember the day of their greatest haul, and know today they've doubled that record.

"As promised, my lords!" Wana takes the biggest, brightest fish he can find from the haul. He tosses them out to where the dolphins are waiting, and laugh in delight when they leap out to snatch from the air. Even Kulo can't help but smile when he adds more by his own hand. The bounty has made them generous.

Eventually the dolphins stop leaping after their tribute. The winds pick up with a huffing sound, the waves lapping at their hull.

Kulo shares a grimace with his little brother as they remember the third being in the sea, one without a solid shape. "What the hell do we give it?"

Wana frowns over their little boat. They have nothing valuable to offer except their catch, and what the wind and waves want with more fish? They're just humble fishermen, for gods' sake! It's not as if their Manoan with gold to throw, or even with the green stone earrings that adorn the lesser citizens of the city. Their only decorations are the blossoms around their necks, lovingly granted by Kulo's little girl just that morning to see her dad and uncle back safe from sea.

With a desperate murmur of prayer, Wana removes his chain of flowers. A sudden breeze rips them from his hands.

The dolphins crest a high wave that douses the deck. There's _something_ in the wave. Its long head and curved neck could almost be called serpentine, if not for the blossoms woven into its sea-foam mane.

Then the sea is still, and the dolphins disappear into the deep. Kulo blinks after them. "No way is anyone back home believing this."

* * *

 Their haul of fish is too much for the village to accept as blind luck. The elders are somewhat unsettled by their tale, for the dolphins and the sea-foam beast do not match the fickle sea spirits already known by their lore. The fishermen scoff and murmur if the brothers plundered from another's nets or not. Kulo's little girl believes immediately. She does not let her father and Uncle Wana go back to sea, without shells and flowers and snacks, anything and everything the dolphins and their friend might like.

With every fishermen bold enough to call out to the sea, the story spreads with every haul brought home. The dolphins and their strange wind are sighted wherever their story spreads, from coastal village to coastal village.

Inevitably, their tale rivers the mouths of rivers, and swim upstream on canoes and fishing boats. There are dolphins that brave both the coast and the rivers, after all. Why can't these dolphins swim the murky, unpredictable river bottoms, and bring all their good fortune with them?

* * *

Chel has robbed the Dual Gods' golden temple beneath Tzekel-Kan's very nose. She's escaped with a _very_ pure golden head that can carry her for miles, if she bargains it right. She's made it through the city and the cavernous dark that hides them from the outside world.

It's all going to be for nothing if Chima and his men catch her. Her salvation will be ripped from her hands and she'll be dragged back to Manoa have her heart ripped out _at best._ There's always the bloody dismemberment of a traitor's death before the Jaguar God's altar to look forward to, after all.

The waterfall. She's made it out of the waterfall. Now she has to follow the river downstream. She can travel faster by boat than she ever could on foot, to those floating cities or mound-builders up north, or the jungles of the deep south.

_If_ she makes it that far. Chel's big brother ran this same path too, before he got dragged back to be sacrificed before the Jaguar God's altar.

She skids past the stele of the Dual Gods and Feathered Serpent, wheezing for breath. Her job is clean temples and know the rituals, dammit! Chima and his warriors have stamina, and years of expertise in tracking down the runaways that threaten Manoa's secrecy. They're going to run her down like a dog and--

A chattering from the river stops Chel cold. Clutching her prize to her chest, she glances slowly to her left. Two large shapes bob in the water. One is sleek and shimmering, the other stark black and white. The stillness of the shrouded mist, the only thing keeping her hidden, is stirred by a wind that smells of salt and sand.

River dolphins don't brave Lake Parime, not when the giant kingfish can snap them up in one bite, but Chel still knows her stories.

"Oh no," Chel huffs at the dolphins. "You're not drowning me. Not today, not ever. I don't care how good looking you think you look as people, I'm not--"

Between one blink and the next, the dolphins are gone, and two men are knee-deep on the river bank. One is short and sun-haired, his partner dark and lean. Their eyes are green and blue, deep as the seas. Their naked chests shine with water droplets, for they wear only the rough-spun wraps of fishermen around their hips and necklaces of shells and blooms and fish bone.

They're handsome. Stupidly so. But Chel didn't make it all this way to be dragged off by dolphins, thank you very much. So she bites her lip and takes a step back, for she was already creeping closer to try leaping into their arms.

The darker one huffs and crosses his arms. " _Excuse_ me? Do we look like tricksters to you?"

The golden one grimaces a bit. "Actually, Tulio, that's not entirely--"

"Fine, Miguel. Fine. Do we look like _common_ tricksters to you?"

Chel pauses. All the stories say river dolphins wear hats when they look like people to hide their blow holes. Unless these are some very realistic wigs, they're not hiding any holes on their heads.

"No," she grudgingly allows. The wind's still stirring, the waters frothing. "And I don't think you're alone, either."

The froth coalesces into a noble head and arching neck gray as the mist, with a darker, dripping mane. The spirit snorts, flicking at an ear at her, but never venturing away from the deep water.

Miguel smiles. Chel can't help but shudder. It's bright and sunny and, just for a moment, she thinks everything could be alright. "You called for us?"

"I..." She hasn't said anything out loud, aside from some gasping curses and... frantic prayers to whoever or whatever god might be listening. She doesn't know any of these three, not at all. "I want out." She jerks her head fiercely down the river, to the seas that bore these beings, away from the faint footsteps she hears pounding through the mist and gaining. "Out there. Anywhere but here."

Miguel and Tulio look back to her pursuers, share a brief glance, and back to her. They extend their hands. Cursing under her breath and still half-sure she's gonna be drowned, Chel skews her eyes shut, clambers down the riverbank, and takes a leap of faith.

Warm hands bear her onward. Chel cracks open her arms when they set her atop the broad back of... something. She finds herself astride the third spirit. With a gasp she winds her hands into his mane. He nickers gently, shifting beneath her to ease her body into a more comfortable position.

"This is Altivo," Miguel supplies. "He doesn't talk much."

"Yeah," Tulio scoffs. "Because he's a _horse_."

Altivo snorts, jerking his head just so. A sudden gust of wind rips a loose branch from the trees to bonk Tulio right in the head.

"Um, my lords," Chel interjects, at the figures barrelling through the mist. "I think it's time to be answering my prayers, now."

With a warning whinny Altivo lurches up, the winds surging with him. In the wave of water, the dolphins crest to his side.

The breeze scatters the mist, giving Chel clear view of Chima and his bewildered guards. She turns to wave cheerfully at them, even the two dolphins leaping up to do the same, before the river spirits her away.

Tulio and Miguel barely touch the water, flying through wind and wave alike. Upon Altivo's back and the gale whipping through her hair, Chel first clings to the horse's back in terror. Only after a first moments does she crack open her eyes and realize she's _free,_ gliding at speeds only birds and ships in the open ocean can hope to muster. With a whoop she throws out her free arm, as if she is the one soaring. When Miguel or Tulio leap close enough, she dares reach out to brush her fingers against their forms, wet and sleek.

All too soon, it's over. The river yawns out into a wide mouth, and wider still. Even squinting out into the horizon, Chel sees nothing but open water and a sky streaked red from the last gasps of sunset. Overhead the constellation unfurl like a tapestry. Hemmed in by towering temples and mountains, she's never realized how many there are.

Altivo trots near onto the shore. The dolphins swim into shallow waters, and then stand as men. Under starlight they glow with a dim radiance of their own.

"This far enough for you?" Tulio asks archly.

Miguel huffs on her behalf. "We're not dropping her off in the middle of nowhere, Tulio."

"I kid, Miguel, I kid." The darker god jerks his head left and right. "Which direction do you feel like? The village up north has better ships for going up coast or out to the islands, and the one to the south better access to another river, one that doesn't lead to angry mobs of warriors."

Chel's fingers wind tighter into Altivo's mane. She can't bring herself to climb off now, and have this miracle dissolve like sea foam. Her gaze fixates pointedly on the horizon. "How about out there?"

Tulio grimaces. "Death, despair, and if you make it far enough, soul-crushing monotheism." Altivo snorts and Miguel makes a face of his own, but neither contradict him. Chel's heart sinks. Then he sighs, and amends, "If you cross all the way east, at least. What's past the villages in the north and south... Well, we'll see where the stories take us."

Chel's breath hitches in envy. As one all three heads swing to stare into her soul. Too late she remembers these are beings born of the heart.

"Don't be afraid," Miguel murmurs. "Escape is what you needed. What is it you _want_?"

"Adventure." Then, because the best prayers might as well be for impossible things, she breathes, "Forever." She unwraps her golden idol, baring it to them as tribute befitting the Dual Gods' sacred sanctuary, all in the world she has to offer beyond her own body and soul. Maybe, just maybe, she's willing to offer those up to.

For an eternity the Miguel and Tulio gaze to each other. Then they smile, secret as the sea. Altivo bobs his head, and the waves rise with him.

"You know, partner, we never caught your name."

Chel makes a sound both laugh and sob. "Chel. Call me Chel."

Altivo roams deeper into the sea, leaving the shore behind. Chel doesn't mind in the slightest, for Miguel and Tulio reach out for her with open arms and open hearts. She reaches out for them both, and they to her.

The golden idol tumbles in empty air and falls with a splash, to be swallowed by sea and sand.

The bay is empty, save for the whistling laughter of three dolphins bounding their way out to open ocean, and the whisper of a wind that keeps their secrets to himself.

* * *

 "Sir, the dolphins are still following us."

Everyone on the ship can see them. They're the oddest damn pod any sailor has ever seen. One is a sleek common dolphin that would be right at home in the temperate waters of the Mediterranean. One is small and dark, strange to them as these unknown shores. Strangest still is the black and one, or ones. Depending on the witness, it is only as long as a man, or a large and fearsome killer whale. Perhaps there's more than one. Perhaps the crew's spent too long at sea. They follow in the wake of the Spanish ships like wolves, no matter the prayers thrown their way. Their chattering laughter, ceaseless, is something like the cackling of crows about to set upon a dying soldier on the battlefield.

The superstitious assert they're a bad omen at the very least. The more hysterical assert they're demons of this heathen land. Those that instead argue they are the vengeful spirits of the stowaways that died at sea are also the ones that see Altivo's shade in the water, his head cresting the waves and his hooves pounding against the hull.

Cortes does not spare the man or the chattering laughter a second glance before confining him to quarters to get his hysteria worked out of his system. This expedition is for gold and God and glory. There is no room for superstition, whispers of a power in this world that is not the work of one God and one God alone.

At this point it matters little. By this time tomorrow his crew will make landfall. Then they can stop fixating on fish, and upon the rumors of a golden city somewhere in this God forsaken jungle.

The night before they reach land a sudden storm strikes, even fiercer than the one that raged the night two stowaways slipped away with Cortes' prized stallion. The wind shrieks through the sails like a warhorse's bugle, the waves pound against their hulls like a herd of thundering hooves. Waves rise up to snatch men and supplies like dolphins.

With the next sunrise, the storm dies as quickly as it came. Two battered ships limp through the shoals. Their flagship, largest and grandest of them all, has split open upon the reef. Swimmers and rowboats search for survivors and salvage what they can. Blown miles off course, they linger long enough only to regather, mourn their dead, and set sail for the closest outpost.

The body of Cortes is never found. He's not _that_ Cortes, anyway. His failed expedition is soon overshadowed by greater glories and greater depravities, his name less than a footnote in history.

There are the rumors of El Dorado, of course, stories that will keep men searching rivers and jungles across this godless new world for the next three hundred years. They will sacrifice endless years and endless lives in pursuit of the unreachable dream.

Almost as persistent are the stories spread by sailors and fishermen, upstream and down the coast. Sometimes it's a phantom pod of dolphins to lead a boat to fishing grounds or a Spanish galley to dash upon rocks. They are guardians of El Dorado, the guides of the desperate refugees to golden salvation and the bane of those who hunt gold and slaves.

The tale spreads past El Dorado's purported shores, from Florida to the Falkland Isles, by the word of mouth of slaves and sailors. It's phantom dolphins, seahorses and mermen, a whole damned pirate ship crewed by rebels and runaways, from the Azores to the East Indies. Their tale shelters in ships and ports and riverbeds. Long after the Spanish Empire has crumbled to dust, and El Dorado's passed from fact into legend into myth, they're still there.

The dolphins are out there still, frolicking where only seahorses and drowned know. When the wind is just so, and the waves just right, hold out your hand and your hopes and all you hold precious. They will come, freedom and fortune and folly, for those that still believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the epithets for Apollo is 'Delphinius' - 'of the dolphin.' A form he assumed to drag a ship full of Cretan colonists to Delphi, to snag himself from followers.
> 
> All the names Miguel has for Tulio? Not only handily evoke dolphins, but all actual epithets for Hermes/Mercury :p
> 
> Miguel is a common dolphin (well-known to the Mediterranean and people of the eastern shores of Central America) and Chel is a tucuxi, a New World dolphin that thrives in rivers and in the ocean. Depending on environment and personal preference, Tulio bounces forth from pygmy killer whale from false killer whale to full-blown orca, all indigenous to Spanish waters and to those of the Americas.
> 
> The flourishing of the Spanish Empire helped ignite the Golden Age of Piracy. Guess who got folded into all that fun :p


	3. the gods are here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow or some way, Miguel's impulsive idiocy will always save the day.

"My lords, why now do you choose to visit us?"

Chief Tannabok's question is born of earnest bewilderment, a human wish to understand the machinations of the world. However, Tzekal-Kan's already puffing up with indignity on their behalf. Miguel doesn't need foresight to see the snap about daring to question divinity coming a thousand miles away.

So, because his impulses have worked out _so well_ lately, Miguel first blurts out, "Because... it's our destiny."

And things snap into place, because _that is not a lie._ Tulio's born of lies, lived and breathed them long before circumstances forced them into the lives of thieves and con artists. Miguel's never been one for falsehoods. Vaguely worded prophecies? Yes. Half-truths and enigmatic smiles people were prone to misinterpret? Also yes. But never outright lies.

First the map, and then just the right chaos to shake them out of comfortable complacency and into a one-way trip to the New World? Washing up right onto the exact start of the trail and then immediately stumbling into people that saw them as their foretold divinities?

Tulio and Altivo gape incredulously at him. Miguel smiles gamely back, because there are no accidents and, once upon a time, his word always came true sooner or later.

"Yes," he elaborates with growing confidence. "This is our destiny, our fate, to be here among you in this place at this time. We were expected, and so we came."

Tulio shoots him a look of dismay, because that volcano is very clearly smoking with displeasure, but he hides his fear behind bluster. "The stars were right for us to be here and so... here we are. Until they are not, and the time once more comes for us to depart... into the sunrise."

Chief Tannabok is still so uncertain, but Tzekal-Kan nods. "Of course, my lords. A thousand blessed years, may Manoa know your presence."

Tulio's only response is a squeak of horror too soft for any but Miguel and Altivo to hear.

"If that is what is willed," Miguel replies cryptically. They could swing a millennium here, maybe, depending on what the people and their gods are like. It's not like the last thousand years have been all that pleasant. At least Manoa has the potential to actually see them for what they were before they were dismissed as heathen spirits or wicked demons.

He still has the old touch, for his answer is just ominous enough that Tzekal-Kan swallows and hastily offers to escort them to _their_ temple.

The golden temple is the tallest, grandest structure in all the city. Miguel finds the climb invigorating, because they are so clearly ascending back where they belong. Altivo excitedly keeps pace with him. Together they could breeze all the way to the top and further still, if there weren't their mortal escorts to consider. Tulio lags behind, muttering under his breath about syncretism and preservation instincts Miguel doesn't have, but even he's not winded.

Their chambers are grand, golden, and _empty._ There is no suffocating presence of a higher power already in residence, seething at interlopers or aching to swallow them whole. There is only the faint hope of an arrival a thousand years in making, and two familiar faces astride the horse-headed serpent.

Miguel grins, and sees himself reflected back in gold. A nudge to the ribs has Tulio shake himself, and consider the depiction with new eyes.

Tzekal-Kan proposes a reverent ceremony at dawn and Chief Tannabok a glorious feast for that very night.

"Both? Both. Both is good," they agree as one.

Whether they stay a thousand years or not, they've been starving for even longer.

* * *

Chel really shouldn't have dawdled so long in putting that stupid golden head back where it belongs. With the gods already in residence, she frantically ducks behind a pillar and prays not to be caught. If she's caught all she can really do is fall to her knees and beg for mercy, _again,_ because her neck's already been saved once today.

"Miguel, Miguel, they actually believe we're..."

"Well, Tulio, clearly we are. The map, the boat, _the steles._ This is our-"

"If you say 'our destiny, our fate' again, I'm going to hit you. And I'm not holding back."

"Oh, Tulio-"

"And another thing, why _those_ names? Our first chance in forever at a fresh start and y-you just..."

A soft, loving sigh. "Oh, Tulio. You can't grow by moving back. I haven't used any of _those_ names in centuries, thank you. I'm not who I used to be, and I'm quite content leaving him and all his problems in the past, where they belong."

"We would probably have a lot less problems if you didn't keep getting people turned into plants," Tulio mutters almost too soft for Chel to hear. His voice is little louder when he muses, "Hey, Miguel, do you _really_ think we actually might have been here before? Say a Greek or Phoenician ship got blown way, way off course one day and decided to start following a river and hope there's someone there at the source..."

A gray muzzle pokes around the pillar. Ancient eyes gaze reprovingly down a long face. Chel falls forward into full-on supplication, shaking arms hitting the floor.

"Oh, great gods, forgive me for trespassing. I was just doing what you bid me, of course, by returning your sacred idol to your temple and--"

Tulio rolls his eyes. "You stole it. And had absolutely no intention of actually stumbling into us."

Chel can't deny it. Bald-faced lying to an actual god in the stories never ends well, and she's cautionary tale enough as it is. She sinks deeper against the floor and braces for the smiting.

Something warm and welcome as sunshine settles before her. Chel cracks open her eyes to discover Lord Miguel bending over her with a beaming smile and a waiting hand. "There are no accidents, Chel. It was your destiny to find us there, and your fate to bring us home."

Chel never told them her name. It doesn't matter. They know her like they do the sun and the stars, the secrets of the future and the worlds beyond the grave.

"And what's my fate now, my lords?"

Lord Tulio pulls a face before he grins wryly and kneels beside his partner. "Well, you just so happened to run into the patron of thieves and lord of liars. You found us here, and brought us into your hearts, even in a bid to save your own neck. It's not Tzekal-Kan or Chief Tannabok that first spoke for us."

Chel gives them that. If she was gonna get eaten, it would have been back before Chima and all his warriors. She takes their hands and lets them lift her up.

* * *

One does not question the gods, even if the gods in question have yet displayed a single case of their great and unspeakable power. Faith has never worked like that. And, in every single tale Tannabok learned at his mother's knee, the smiting and the suffering comes only _after_ the idiot in the story decides to openly mock a god in their current incarnation.

So Tannabok places on his brightest, most convincing smile and urges his people to do the same. Their dancers, their puppeteers, their performers, every last cup of pulque and cigar, must prove themselves worthy of divinity.

The gods graciously receive their tribute. Their efforts are rewarded in turn.

It's the little things, at first. Musicians spontaneously play new masterpieces and dancers reach exalting heights in their leaps. Tongue-tied people weave songs and speeches praising the sun and the stars and all that is sacred. Bottomless platters of food and jugs of pulque flow from the festivities into the poorest homes. Then the little aches and the fatal ailments clear up, and death claims not a single life in Manoa that night. People awake to new riches and fertile fields and boundless inspiration.

And then it is morning, and the dawning of Tzekal-Kan's first sacrifice of countless. He is the high priest of all cults in Manoa, and Tannabok merely chief of the earthly realm. All he can do is bite his lip, try for calm, and _pray._

The Dual Gods are resplendent in their litter, though Lord Miguel grows radiant with the rising sun, and Lord Tulio is regal with the fading majesty of night. The crowd is as tense as Tannabok, though more openly so, held back by only the rare zealot in the crowds that would rat them out to Tzekal-Kan for daring to deny the will of the gods. Chel, the priestess who just yesterday was an acolyte destined for sacrifice, scatters flowers so their feet will not touch the naked earth. She herself is tense, though there is a certainty in her eyes Tannabok can only guess at.

 "The gods deserve a proper tribute!" Tzekal-Kan roars to the crowd, who return it with the enthusiasm demanded by the gods being physically present.

The gods, at first politely intrigued, fixate on the high priest. Lord Miguel stares at the high priest with a hawk's expectant intensity. Lord Tulio licks his lips like a hungry wolf. Tannabok's anxiety spikes.

"The dawning of a new age demands... _sacrifice!"_

The poor man, drugged and bound, emerges a wave of Tzekal-Kan's magical smoke.

The gods blink, stunned, and their faces shift in what will haunt Tannabok's nightmares until his dying day.

Lord Miguel burns, hot and terrible as the sun. Lord Tulio is dark and primal. Though the glint in his eye is not meant for Tannabok, he still grapples with the urge to flee in panic-induced madness.

Too late does Tzekal-Kan realize his grave affront. He falls forward in full supplication. "M-M-My l-l-lords, I--"

Tzekal-Kan screams, high and shrill, then higher still. Tannabok is close enough to witness his punishment up close, but with every cracking bone and rending flesh and sounds that will never, ever let him eat meat again.

The horrified crowd parts like water to allow the spotted little cat flee from the gateway to Xibalba, through the city, and into the jungle forever. Not a jaguar, never so large or terrible. Only a little ocelot, never able to grow into such a shadow.

Tulio's face is still feral. "You still should-"

"No," Miguel butts in succinctly, the fire fading from his eyes. "He never _knowingly_ tried to sacrifice a human life to us, _because he never bothered to ask us in the first place."_ He is once more soft and gentle as the dawn when he kneels toward the man just offered as tribute. One golden touch has the man's bonds fall off. With a startled gasp he awakens, free of his stupor.

The earnest display of mercy, of _humanity,_ makes Tannabok relax somewhat. He clearly remembers his childhood stories, thank you very much. He knows the terrible sacrifices that devastated the age before this one, just as he knows what the Dual Gods created for humanity to offer up in place as human blood, a gift to limit human blood to all but the rarest, move gravest of offerings.

Tannabok modestly clears his throat and motions to the acolytes he has waiting in the wings. With their bravest attempts at smiles they inch forward with baskets laden in gold. "My lords, may the people of Manoa offer you our tribute?"

Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio smile, and the dawn turns golden as their temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can imagine how things can go from here ; )


	4. cat creeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tzekal-Kan manages to connect to the new gods after all. And (sorta) gets what he wants.
> 
> The Age of the Jaguar will be written in blood. Whose blood, however....

The history of the Age of the Jaguar will be written in blood.

Whose blood, however... Tzekal-Kan's still working on that.

Manoa has awaited the return of the enigmatic Dual Gods for a thousand years and he _still_ hadn't seen the signs of their coming. No wonder they relied on a mere acolyte to serve as their herald. If that isn't a warning for him to pay attention better, then Tzekel-Kan's eating his own earrings!

His first instinct had been to immediately prepare a human sacrifice for the dawning, one to properly set off the sudden new year. If the Dual Gods had properly manifested as sons or incarnations of the Jaguar God, then Tzekal-Kan could have taken up his obsidian knife to carve out his gods still-beating hearts to feast upon. But they haven't, and their forms are perplexing.

So his second impulse was to fall back on the old stand-by for when the omens call for human sacrifice, but woefully neglect the specifics. A neutral victim would be a man of middling age, neither too old nor too young, a lowly servant of the Vine caste. His skull would be bashed in above Xibalba's swirling waters, his body swallowed by the whirlpool below, for the gods to do with as they willed.

Only when Tzekal-Kan is making the earliest preparations, does his mouth snap shut just before he can order a suitable soul to be readied. Even sequestered away in his temple, the roaring festivities of Chief Tannabok's cursed feast drift into the Jaguar God's ceremony. The gods show obvious approval of the fat, timid chief's meager offerings. And what is Tzekal-Kan offering in return? A... _meager_ sacrifice, designed to appeal to as many deities as possible.

Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio are no mere deities. They are _the_ Dual Gods, returned upon their heavenly messenger (though Lord Altivo is obviously not the Feathered Serpent as Tzekal-Kan knows him.) His first sacrifice to them must set the precedent for all those in the millennium to come. And he will not make history with some peasant of little consequence.

Of course Tzekal-Kan just can't directly ask _the gods_ what sacrifice they desire. They're _the gods,_ and have so very pointedly chosen Chel as their priestess. Yet, even with the chastisement, Tzekal-Kan's pride will not allow him to consort with Chel as he would with the speakers of the other great gods. Just today she had been a troublesome acolyte with a personal and family history of treachery. Her worth holds only as long the gods don't have the whim to snap her up too.

Now that the gods are again so obviously amongst their people, Tzekal-Kan can at least fall back on the proper method of consorting with divinity. He knows the precise secret elixirs that will allow Balam Qoxtok to stalk his dreams with visions, should the Jaguar God be so willing. He has far less practice with seeking other gods, for even as a young acolyte Tzekal-Kan had known himself as Balam Qoxtok's, and none before him had ever succeeded in seeking the Dual Gods in their dreams.

Whatever the precise ritual is, Tzekal-Kan knows wine is certainly a major part of it. From his acolytes' reports of the feast each individual god has already downed enough pure wine to kill a mortal man ten times over.

The rest is half whim and half desperate gamble. His mystified attendants bring him beans and peccary, maize and oysters collected from the far sea. Upon the altars they feverishly throw plants none before would consider proper incense, only weeds. The smoke is thick and dizzying, even to his hardened constitution, strange and sacred.

One whiff of his contrived concoction, and Tzekal-Kan almost heaves. Even before he downs it he knows the brew is not right, but it's the closest he can get.

It _must_ work.

He shall make it so.

* * *

_The Golden Gods descended from the east to raise the world anew, before they once more vanished into the sunrise. It thus east Tzekal-Kan walks, to where no man of Manoa has walked before_

_The Jaguar God stalks primordial jungle thick and dark, where not even the sun can reach. The lands of the Dual Gods are in the high hills, cold and arid in comparison to the lush jungle heat. Trees are scarce. In open meadows thunder a herd of countless. Their hooves are the storm and the wind and the pounding drums of war. He sees Lord Altivo in their wild eyes and in their riders, kings and conquerors. Tzekal-Kan aches with envy at such raw power. It would trample him beneath it hooves._

_No. He can never tame the wind, but he knows who can._

_Tzekal-Kan stands among quiet caves where wisdom first spoke and silent springs where prophecy first weaved. Such humble beginnings, for such great gods. It is almost enough for him to turn up his nose and turn back, but these sorts of trials are never for the fainthearted. He shall not find his gods here, among petty superstitions and whispers just gaining a voice of their own, but it is a beginning. So down the rugged mountain path he walks, for the way is marked by loose piles of stone. At the end he shall find those he seeks._

_Through the ages he transcends, without ever leaving at all. Loose stone cairns grow into faces and then idols of their own. Above humble springs and grottoes are raised small shrines, and then great temples where thousands pay homage. West Tzekal-Kan walks with them, the people and their gods._

_Upon the way they stumble upon razed temples and towns, entire civilizations turned to dust. There are bodies, men and women and children, whole armies laid low by their pride and their wrath and their whims. They've devoured peoples and pantheons alike. Tzekal-Kan bursts with pride the whole march west, for the final and most glorious of their conquests shall be Manoa itself._

_Yet that triumph falters, falls stagnant. The monuments stop rising. Then there's chips and cracks. The further Tzekal-Kan walks, the more the glorious temples fall into ruin, the fewer followers come to offer their prayers and their tribute._

_Tzekal-Kan weeps, when those temples, still beautiful in their ruin, are burned and their altars torn down. When their last faithful followers are cut down by treacherous deserters of the old faith or else quietly fade into the road without nary a whisper._

_How far the gods have fallen, when they departed the world last time. How they much thirst for the blood of each and every person that ever dared cast them aside._

_Yet Tzekal-Kan cannot stop. Not to weep, not to rage. He is stalked by far too many shadows._

_Gods gaze at him from the stones and the springs, the sun and the stars. They are in the eyes of the docile flocks and  their diligent guardians and ravenous predators. There is the mischievous child that would lead him into ruin, and the cruel-eyed youth that would strike Tzekal-Kan down for daring to look at him the wrong way. All are the gods that **were,** by names long forgotten and that Tzekal-Kan never wants to know. They are not the ones he seeks._

_At the very end, lounging in the ruins of their fallen sanctuaries, Tzekal-Kan finds those he seeks. The vision cannot decide what they are wearing - in some heartbeats they are in the strange garb of their arrival, others in the traditional clothes of the Dual Gods and others in those he has no name for. Their faces stay the same, and that's what matters._

_"Lord Tulio!" he cries plaintively. "Lord Miguel!"_

_Lord Miguel idly glances up from the stringed instrument he strums. "Oh, Tulio, look. It's Tzekal-Kan. But aren't we asleep?"_

_Lord Tulio shrugs, tossing his dice again and again. "A drunken dream is a dream is a dream, Miguel."_

_Lord Miguel nods. "Yes, of course."_

_Their tongues are not Manoan. They speak a dozen languages, each as dead as the last. Tzekal-Kan understands them all the same. He **must.**_

_"Lord Tulio and Lord Miguel!" he cries again, only he truly calls for **He of the People** and **Who Is Like God**. "I humbly seek your guidance, so that I might best serve you. What is it you seek--"  
_

_"Gold," Lord Tulio cuts in immediately. "Piles of it. Temples of it."_

_"Hundreds of honey cakes," Lord Miguel chimes in. "Roasted swans. Caskets of wine."_

_"Rams. Or ewes. All either white as snow or black as night. At least a hecatombe."_

_Only Tzekal-Kan hears **a bloodbath of one hundred.**_ _His stomach sinks. Even he, with all his authority, cannot manage such a miracle in the scarce hours left before the dawning. There is outrage among the peasants when even a single soul is taken. The Dark Days, for all their decades of preparation, take only fifty-two lives for the next count of years._

_Miguel licks his lips, and Tzekal-Kan realizes with a chill how very parched they both must be. "You know what, Tulio? Let's go with both. Both is good. A hecatombe of each."_

_Worst still, he does not know what constitutes a 'ram' or a 'ewe,' let alone a hundred sinners and hundred pure souls of either._

_"M-My lords, the Age of the Jaguar is--"_

_Saying it out loud, Tzekal-Kan does not hear 'jaguar.' A thousand years removed from Manoa, the word means nothing to Lord Miguel or Lord Tulio. He hears another word - or two, depending on which of the dozen foreign tongues is bouncing around his head._

_Tzekal-Kan pauses. He has to. Behind him, grazing close enough to touch, is the biggest beast he's ever seen up close. Its hide is white as the clouds, its horns pure gold._

_Of course such a prize is hunted. Its death explodes from the grass to tear at its hide and leaps from the trees to sink claws and fangs into vulnerable flesh. Yet neither predator can land the killing blow. Beneath their patchy hides Tzekal-Kan can count every rib. They're too weakened to go for the kill._

_Neither are jaguars, but they're close enough for Tzekal-Kan to know them. And he knows them._

_Mundane jaguars do not stalk humans, when there is enough tapir in the jungle to satiate all but those touched by Balam Qoxtok._

_Why waste delicacies on a starving man, when all he craves is bread to fill his belly?_

* * *

_Chel's nightmares have been stalked by the Jaguar God since she was old enough to hear exactly what god her aunts were sacrificed to long before her birth. Her father joined when the jaguar took him when he was out clearing the fields, and her big brother when Tzekal-Kan spilt his blood on the altars for daring to run off._

_She hears him screaming, far off. Her blood should have been his that night._

_Instead Chel is nestled between two very different hunters. They slumber each with a massive paw possessively thrown over her. Their breath reeks of old meat. Their fangs gleam in the starlight._

_This isn't a nightmare, because Chel isn't afraid. So long as her protectors are here, not even the Jaguar God dare stalks closer. Even if her protectors are snoring and dead to the dreaming world._

_Their breath is unpleasant, but their pelts smell of woods and the wind, smoke and incense. Each is an assuring warmth against her side. So she twins her fingers even deeper into the thick mane next to her, burrows her face in, and drifts away from the dream._

She awakens spooning Miguel, face nestled in his golden hair, and Tulio on the other side spooning them both. They're all fully clothed, the oblivious idiots still snoring even when she fights her way free from their grips.

Chel distantly remembers thinking how comfy the space between them looked after she got them cleaned up and dumped into their bed last night. She vaguely recalls settling for the couch.

Turns out she was drunker or more stupidly impulsive than she remembered. At least she's the only one awake enough to care.

Not that it matters, when Tzekal-Kan's acolytes arrive to bear the 'gods' into the new year.

Chel doesn't know the specifics of Tzekal-Kan's impending sacrifice. She was rather too busy last night wrangling two reckless, drunken idiots from blowing their con to go prodding her fellow former acolytes for details. All that matters is it's not gonna be good. The best case scenario is at least one poor bastard losing their life. A worse scenario is a mass sacrifice. Their worst case scenario is her two idiots cracking from sheer terror, and all of them becoming a mass sacrifice _together._

"The beginning of a new era, the dawning of a new age... demands _sacrifice!"_

Chel braces for the horrified gasps and shrieks. There are gasps, alright. And most of them sound like _huh_?

The tribute is hobbled, though from its wide eyes and heaving sides it is too drugged to properly stand regardless.

It's a tapir, bigger and broad as Chief Tannabok, the greatest beast a hunter can hope to fell that won't try to hunt him back. Managing to bring one back alive as a sacrifice is ambitious only if one forgets Tzekal-Kan jumps at every possible chance to offer up the greatest tribute of all, a human life.

Yet the high priest grins proudly up at his 'gods' and Chel knows he's not just settling for a tapir. So why...

Curiously she glances back at her partners. Their avid interest has sharpened into something else. Have their eyes always been so bright? Their pupils so narrow? When Tzekal-Kan raises up his obsidian knife, Tulio bares teeth in a too-sharp smirk and Miguel openly licks his lips.

And Chel barely holds back her shiver. For the first time since the idiots burst out laughing at the idea they were considered gods, she feels the beginnings of fear.

The tapir squeals high and shrill when the high priest brings his knife down. It is still thrashing when Tzekal-Kan kneels to collect its life's blood in a golden bowl. He smugly thrusts it into her hands. The blood, warm and sticky, sloshes onto her hands and further still. She can't keep her hands from shaking when she lifts the tribute up to her partners.

Tulio snatches for it too fast to blink, but Miguel is faster still. He grabs his partner's wrist. His warning snarl is anything but human.

Chel tenses, because her first instinct is to smash this heavy bowl in the first one to lunge at her like she's breakfast. Instead it's Tulio that jerks back, a bit of roundness returning to his cat-slitted eyes. He smile, despite the fangs, is sheepish.

"Sorry," he whispers. "It's just... been a while. A _long_ while."

Chel nods mutely and is too bemused to shiver, even when two pairs of clawed hands gently take the bowl from their hands. As one Tulio and Miguel lift it to their lips and guzzle it like wine. They do the same to the second bowl, and the ten after.

When the blood from the cooling corpse runs dry, Chel expects them to cast off their last vestiges of humanity and tear into it. Instead Miguel, with a shaggy golden mane hanging heavy around his shoulders and tufted tail twitching, effortlessly lifts the tapir above his head. The crowd cheer at his declaration of a feast, that no belly of their people shall go empty that day.

It is Miguel, golden and regal, that leads the procession to the lit fires and stone slabs in the city square that have conveniently appeared for the cooking and butchering. It is Tulio that hangs back to swing Chel onto a resigned Altivo, who remains close enough for Chel to gawk at the rosettes etched into his human skin.

He awkwardly rubs his neck, voice still the same despite the tail and flesh-rending fangs. "You know, Miguel and I technically never said we _weren't_ gods."

Chel's mouth twists as she glares down at Altivo. Oh, she can't be mad at him. The horse hasn't said anything at all, one way or the other. "That's still lying by omission, _partner."_

Tulio's mouth twists. "I'm sorry."

It's an apology from a god, one that could have eaten her in her sleep, but instead went along with her lie and saved her life.

Chel says nothing.

"I... might also just be god of that to."

That makes her snort. "What? Lies or half-assed apologies?"

"Um, yes to the first. And Miguel and I might as well share the second."

Chel can't help her smile.

* * *

Well, neither of them are jaguars. Even the one that looks almost like one.

One is larger than the largest jaguar, without any spots at all. From his luxurious mane to his tufted tail, there is not a part of him that isn't some shade of tawny gold. Except for his emerald eyes, kind and patient as she pokes at his ears and rubs the velvet between his paws.

The other is smaller and slighter, with a graceful build and a long tail for life in the trees, where the bulkier jaguar must prowl the undergrowth. The spots are smaller, the pelt beneath an almost dusty shade of gray rather than saturated gold. He rumbles in pleasure as Chel traces his spots and rubs a disbelieving finger down his jawline. His eyes are blue as the deep sky.

 She takes a step back. In the blink of the eye the two great cats are as she's known them, without a spot or fang to be seen. Tulio and Miguel make faces as they roll their shoulders and stretch their arms.

"Yeesh," Tulio groans. "A thousand years stuck. And with all the gods damned _cramping._ "

His grumbling devolves to a pleasurable sigh when Miguel smoothly moves to rub those shoulders. Chel knows the first touch heals any actual ache. The massage continues just for their mutual pleasure.

She'd be jealous, if she couldn't stop staring.

"W-W- _What?_ "

Tulio shrugs, lolling his head back as Miguel gives it all he has. "Well, it's not like we've had any use for these forms in, I dunno, fifteen hundred years or so."

"The west has wolves and bears, not lions and leopards," Miguel chimes in. "The shepherds protecting their flocks had different things to worry about. But we still remember our early days."

"Yeah," Tulio says glumly. "Somebody has to. Because all the ones back east hunted our cats to extinction."

Miguel frowns. "Well, in some areas, yes. But if you still go further east there's-"

"Different cats, different problems, different gods. Until, you know, monotheism."

Chel frowns as she tries piecing this to their prior confessions. "Is what why you headed west? Because your original sense of purpose went extinct?"

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Please, Chel. We have _complexity._ "

In heartbeats he goes from man to wolf to tortoise to a curly-horned animal Chel will one day know as ram. Miguel can't resist either, when he shifts to swan to hawk to snow-white bull. Their faces are as infinite as the names they tried rattling off to Chel earlier. She instinctively knows they hold so many more forms near and dear to them than those Tzekal-Kan drew from them earlier.

Chel draws back into herself as the revelation clicks. "Tzekal-Kan saw what he wanted to, didn't he? He made you show the closest you can get."

And it is the Jaguar God Tzekal-Kan desires. He will drown Manoa and all the world in blood, to rule an age where War and Conquest reign. In Tulio and Miguel he has all the pieces he needs. Chel knows lions and leopards are both man-eaters already, when the conditions are right. Who knows what they'll become when Tzekal-Kan spills human blood on their altars next.

Miguel's grip falls on her. Chel tenses, but these are not the claws of a man-eater. They are human hands, lean and graceful, and their artful fingers set to work in rubbing her cares away.

"Excuse me?" he purrs in her ear. "Who in this city speaks for us again?"

"Certainly not that cat creep," Tulio answers from a hairsbreadth away.

Chel raises her head. "I do," she declares resolutely, before the gods' worshipful kisses claim her grin and her triumph.

* * *

 In one certain area of the jungle, far enough upriver and away from the world left behind, lions and leopards stalk. The conquistadors know them from their excursions in Africa against the Saracens. Just as in that heathen land, their death descends from the trees, and erupts from the undergrowth. It is known entire expeditions are swallowed up by the jungle and never seen again, for their predators even eat up their very bones. Their deaths are known only from the roars in the night and the glinting eyes in the dark.

So too are the Spanish of this area warned to never, ever approach an Indian woman on her own. No matter or beautiful or voluptuous she may be. Especially not on a forlorn path or in the dead of night, when it is so easy to follow her into the desolate dark. The Catholic stories preach against witches and their panther familiars, ghosts and their demon lovers, for those that follow that wraith are devoured by the beast in her wake. Or by the woman herself.

The natives, who know her better, still whisper of a guardian goddess and her gods. She is the Lady Judge, who appear before all who seek the jungle's secrets. To the worthy and desperate she shall lead the way to the golden city, the one that will never be taken by outside forces. To the slavers and the murderers she instead call out her consorts, to cleanse the wicked from the world and open the path to refuge once more.

The people of Manoa know their gods best. There is Lord Altivo, the Horse God who tramples the enemies of the city and guides the way of the city. There is Chel, Lady of Sacrifice, who was once mortal herself. She now serves as the bridge between humanity and the great gods, who the dictates the sacrifices necessary for communion. Humans can't be expected to offer up tribute on their own. Not after Tzekal-Kan.

And of course there are Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio. The Lion God and the Leopard God are proud predators. While they delight in gold and merriment they hunt on their own. The hunters pray to them for successful hunts and their protection when they must patrol the jungles, where War and Conquest lurk. Only once a year, on the anniversary, is the blood of a single bull or tapir shed on their altar and all Manoa feasts to commemorate their greatest deed.

It is not the anniversary of their arrival or their first blood sacrifice.

It is the dawning when haughty Tzekal-Kan, blinded by his own hubris, dared offer up a human life as sacrifice. And was devoured himself.

None of the gods of Manoa will ever call for a human sacrifice, not like in the old days. Especially not the Lion God and the Leopard God. They already happily prey on those who wish to harm their people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ancient Greeks were well-familiar with lions and leopards. They lived alongside both. Leopards definitively dwelt well into western Anatolia and may well have lived in Greece itself. There were most definitively lion prides up until 100 AD or so. Both would have preyed upon the flocks, and so been associated with protection and depredation of livestock - aspects Hermes and Apollo both shared :p
> 
> Neither are quite as you'd picture them. Miguel is a European lion, of somewhat unclear relation to the Barbary and Asiatic lion. Thick, luxurious manes, especially in the winter months, were probably a thing. Lions have been extirpated from both North Africa and the Middle East. The Asiatic lion now only endures in a small subsection of India.  
> Here's an Ancient Greek lion: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_lions_in_Europe#/media/File:Brauron_-_Marble_Slab_with_a_Lion.jpg  
> And the thick mane an Asiatic lion develops in a cold climate: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asiatic_lion#/media/File:Asian_lion_3.jpg
> 
> Tulio is a Persian leopard or a very similar subspecies now lost to the ages. (It's formal designation is literally Panthera pardus tulliana!) It's larger than most leopard subspecies, paler in color, and more cold tolerant, although no leopard does well in areas of heavy snowfall. Here's an image for reference: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persian_leopard#/media/File:Persian_Leopard_sitting.jpg


	5. gods don't lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gods don't lose."
> 
> Except against each other. And maybe not even then.
> 
> Or: what happens when Apollo and Tulio push one too many of each other's buttons, and Chel has enough of their shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I banged this out in a few hours. God, when the Muses sing they SING.

"What is the object of this game, pray tell?"

Chel's very faint bit of optimism sinks. Uh, shouldn't it be  _obvious?_ "You've gotta knock the ball through the hoop."

"What hoop?"

Two bemused pairs of eyes follow her finger the long, long way up to where the golden hoop of their side is perched above the court. Chel's hope somehow sinks even further at Tulio's dismayed groan.

"Impossible," he groans. "We're gonna lose."

"Gods don't lose," she murmurs pointedly. Because with these crowds there's no escaping now. Even if she leaps on Altivo and leaves these two idiots for dead.

Her pout deepens into a scowl when they both snort at that. "Is something about this _funny_ to you?" she hisses. "Because getting your beating heart carved out before cheering crowds sure as hell isn't."

"Neither are spiders," Miguel mutters. He and their partner shiver, but then a smile lights up his features as he playfully nudges Tulio in the shoulder. "Come on, Tulio. We're in this together, this time, and-"

And they're out of time. Tzekal-Kan shoos Chell off to the benches beneath the scoreboard, and the 'gods' to their place on the starting line. When Chel takes her seat, an armadillo fearlessly leaps up to sit beside. She can't help a little smile as it twitches its nose up at her. Lord Bibi is an old scoundrel of a Trickster God. There are few things he likes more than human ingenuity and pranks pulled over the other gods. Maybe there's a chance for her boys yet, even when fifteen of Chief Tannabok's largest, fiercest warriors are called in as their competition.

"Crush them into the dust," Tzekal-Kan cheerfully instructs, before he steps out of the line of fire.

Tannabok's warriors thunder onward. Miguel, after only a moment's hesitation, follows. Chel appreciates his heart, even as her fingers itch to strangle Tulio. The idiot stand stock still, frozen like a deer before the archer.

With a grunt one player dives and sends the ball flying straight past Miguel. Tulio squeals like a kicked puppy and ducks out of its path. Because its preferred target is out of reach, Chel's hand flies up to smack her own forehead.

For a moment the whole arena gapes. Even Miguel gapes at his partner in disbelief.

"My lords," Tzekal-Kan incredulously calls down from the stands. "Were you not supposed to put the ball into play?"

"Well, no," Tulio stutters, before his usual bombast asserts itself. "I was merely demonstrating the... traditional first avoidance maneuver."

"The traditional first avoidance maneuver," Miguel mutters in the same dull, dead tone Tulio had used when Miguel himself had unwittingly consigned their gold to Xibalba.

"Ah." The high priest's lip twists. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"Excuse me," Miguel interjects imperiously. "Who invented this game?"

Tzekal-Kan eases back, mollified. "Why, the gods, of course."

Chel would be relieved, if Miguel has ever looked once in his direction. He's spent the past minute staring a hole into Tulio's soul instead. "Exactly, Tulio. So are you going to choke before a crowd _again?"_

"E-Excuse me?" Tulio squawks, before puffing up with bluster. "That was over _two thousand years_ ago, Miguel! Good fucking gods, can you let it die already?"

"Apparently you can't," Miguel sniffs. "'Glorious' and 'Mighty,' they called you. 'Fastest god in the world,' they said. 'Champion.' _And I outran you._ "

"Because you cheated!"

Miguel throws back his head in a scornful laugh. "Oh, yes, Tulio. I cheated the trickster god! Or did you ever consider it was just your destiny to be made an ass in front of the other gods?"

"Y-You-- The Pythian Games don't count either, you arrogant ponce! She was a _sex and love goddess,_ Miguel, with a whole serving of war on the side! She had you by the balls, too! She had _everyone,_ unless you were freaking-"

"Deceiver!"

"Mouse!"

"Coward!"

"Glorified fish!"

_"Horny old goat!"_

_"Tree-fucker!"_

As the insults fly, a bemused Chel glances up to the mystified crowd. Even Chief Tannabok and Tzekal-Kan watch the accusations with cocked heads and squinted eyes. With a wince Chel sneaks a peak at Lord Bibi's messenger. The little armadillo leans eagerly over the bench, consumed by the spat like the gossip-mongering old people that gather around any argument in the city streets.

With one last vicious shove, Miguel is the one to pull away first. Head held high, he stalks right below where the chief and high priest sit. "You know, Tzekal-Kan, on second thought I do believe you were right. The odds are much too uneven. Hear me out, hm? Six of these fine warriors to me, and nine to Lord Tulio."

Tulio snarls a smile right back. "Please, Lord Miguel. I can't slaughter you like that. I'll only take five. Maybe double the number doubles your minuscule odds."

"Well, I can't foresee you having any _shred_ of hope unless you take all fifteen!"

Tzekal-Kan hangs back, unsure which idiot to sic against the other. After glaring daggers at the priest, Chief Tannabok bravely tries, "Perhaps a contest was a poor choice on our part, my lords. It is not for the place of mortals to demand the gods prove themselves in such... ill-advised demonstrations."

If only either idiot is willing to be talked down. They've goaded each other past that point.

Chel's worried for them. And not just because the early afternoon sun is suddenly so scorching or that the shadows are twisting in ways that cannot be blamed upon the light alone.

So Chel rolls her eyes and wades into the pissing contest. If they weren't before the eyes of their disbelieving public, she'd box both of their ears like her grandma used to do to her. Instead she settles negotiating for terms both grudgingly deem acceptable. Seven players for Miguel, and seven for Tulio. The lucky fifteenth man makes his escape and doesn't do a very good job hiding that he flees for his life.

Chel resets the ball. He heel grinds into Miguel's foot on the way down, and her elbow jabs into Tulio's ribs on the way back up. "Play ball," she says sweetly, while they wince and rub at their sore spots.

They wait until she's off the court before tearing for each other. The first ball leaves a crater in the arena wall. The second soars off into the sky, to never be seen again. The third has fourteen warriors, Tannabok's strongest, slinking off to the side-lines.

When the balls are all destroyed, the ancient area in shambles, and the score inconclusive, the gods are unsatisfied. It hurts to look at either directly. Miguel burns hot and bright, where Tulio is dark and primal and on the verge of maddening.

"Archery! Let me shoot holes through yours!"

"Please. Face me _head-on,_ you gutless coward, so I can wrestle you into submission!

"Race?"

"Race!"

"Around the city!"

"The whole damned valley!"

"The whole damned world!"

Off they go, with a violent gust of wind and chaos in their wake.

"They're going to _destroy_ the whole damned world," someone in the crowd mutters. No one disagrees with her.

Except Chel. There's no way she's running down divinities on foot. "Altivo," she calls, for the one being willing and able to help her. Her prayers are heard when the stallion arrives in a wind of his own. She swings astride him as if she was born upon his back. At this point she might as well have been.

Before he gallops, Altivo rears, and all the gales rise with him. They carry with him the faint sound of clapping.

Chel cranes her head and just glimpses the little armadillo in rapturous applause. Only she knows now it's Lord Bibi himself, not just a mere messenger, and he's cheering her on.

At this point it's not even a race Altivo can hope to win, when the other two have such a head start. So Chel whirls him around, to catch them the other way.

Off she breezes, from one story into her own. She finds her idiot gods neck and neck. It makes it easier to launch herself from Altivo's back and tackle them both.

* * *

 There is a boom unlike any the earth has heard before or will ever hear again. It is nothing like thunder. The earth itself shakes, but it is no earthquake. In a cloudless sky, a downpour falls, and even drenched the world once more knows peace.

One the little boys that so innocently invited Lord Miguel to join their ballgame frowns and confusedly tugs at his mother's hand. "Are they wrestling, Mama?"

"...Yes," she answers blankly.

She, among countless other parents, put their children to beds that night with newly fabricated tales as to why one never, ever goads the gods into anything.

Because they are gods. And humans are oh so squishy in comparison.

How fortunate for humanity, that Lady Chel is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, sweet, and silly as far as one-shots go. Especially when the last one had so many people getting eaten :p 
> 
> The Greek gods are not invincible. There's Arachnea, for one, and then a few tenacious bastards in the Illiad and a few other myths that managed to wound a freaking god in battle. That does not stop them from horribly smiting or transmogrifying mortals dumb enough to challenge them. Like that satyr Apollo had flayed alive for challenging him to a music contest.
> 
> Hermes was god of athletes, contests, and wrestling. He was also the very fast messenger of the gods. And got beat in the first Olympic Games by Apollo. And in the Pythian Games by... Aphrodite. Yes. Who in her oldest (and Spartan) aspects was totally a war goddess too.


	6. remember us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My greatest regret, besides dying, is... our greatest adventure is over before it began, and no one will even remember us."
> 
> Not that even Miguel realizes the irony in that. He and Tulio can't even remember themselves.
> 
> Or: What happens when our two idiots have amnesia thrown on top of all their other problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An innocent prompt from a reviewer ran away from me. Hard. Probably the longest and (accidentally) the darkest one-shot for this series yet. However, the 'Fix It Of Sorts' tag still very much applies :p

Tulio and Miguel go back. Way, way back.

They were boys together, once upon a time. And bonded despite the horrible pranks Tulio would play on Miguel, or perhaps because of them.

"Seven!" Tulio cries. Even before the dice land he knows it's his lucky number. Because he's loaded the odds in his favor.

"All right!" Miguel cheers, ecstatic as ever. No matter the town, he sounds as if each victory is their first. It excites the crowd, that way, helps sell the con almost as much as Miguel's happy strumming on his lute draws more people in.

Of course the dice roll seven. Of course they celebrate like happy idiots. This haul could keep them going for weeks. Or at least through one long night of wine and women and song.

Tulio was born for conning. Miguel's picked it up  that he carries his fair share of the bit. Sure, they've dabbled with other things here and there, herding and hunting and performing. Nothing sticks for long. Except for the outright robbing people blind. There's not much room for anything fun in Spain these days, but they can make their own.

"One more roll!" the old sailor growls.

"Uh, guys, you're broke!" Tulio shouts gleefully, though his eyes see every bit of gold in their teeth and ears. The sorts of things not easily parted. "You've got nothing to bet with!"

His interest curdles when the sailor's prized possession  turns out to be a piece of yellowed paper. "A map?" he sneers.

"A map of the wonders of the New World!"

Tulio drops the thing with a revolted shudder. Going west worked out so _well_ the last time! His childhood is hazy, but Tulio remembers a cushy, carefree life. He and Miguel have wandered west for adventure and glory. They'd found only disgrace and drudgery awaiting them, and no way back home. There's no one left alive to care, not even an asshole father.

Miguel, without such a sense of preservation, opens the map up anyway. Tulio's lip curls at the strange, savage design.

"Tulio, look!" Miguel whispers joyfully, eyes wide like he's a naive little boy again. "El Dorado, the city of gold. And it's landed in our laps! This could be our destiny, our fate."

Tulio rolls in his eyes. He believes in fate as much as he believes in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. That is to say, jack shit.

Fate believes in him just as much, because that crappy sailor is canny enough to insist on using his own dice. With every rub and roll he knows, Tulio finds himself praying to crappy little dice. Because it's his neck and pile of gold on the line now. He _needs_ this, dammit!

Tulio casts his lot with his eyes skewed shut. He only cracks them open when that second dice, after spinning for a lifetime, finally lands right side up.

It's a miracle. A gods damned miracle. If Tulio believes in anything other than himself and Miguel, at least.

Until his own dice slide out and expose them as frauds.

Fleeing Sevilla is unfortunate but not unexpected. Tulio's lost track of how many towns they've been chased of. They always wander back eventually, when the wanted posters have been washed away and their exploits faded.

Winding up stowing away on ships bound for the New World, with a stopover in Cuba to drop their asses off at the sugar plantations?

Well, that's just how their fucking lives go now.

* * *

 Leaving the Old World is not so terrible. Altivo's ready for a fresh start in lands where he has never been hailed as god, only ever prized as the paragon of horses. In the New World he shall trample armies and plow new fields. Upon his back a new age of glory and conquest will be forged, at least until he too is inevitably replaced as gunpowder will soon make the archer obsolete. These days, about as great a fate a being like himself can look forward to.

Despite his bridle and the half-rations, Altivo is still allowed the relative freedom of the open deck. He rarely strays from the railings, where the wind through his mane and the salt on his tongue remind him of better days.

He refuses to go anywhere near the iron grill that divides the deck from its prisoners. Any day now that cell will be a tomb.

Altivo's seen his fair share of gods wither and die over the ages. It was true when the Iberians were burned out by the Romans, and the Romans in turn by the Christians. These two bastards are so far gone he doubts they even remember what they were, anymore. Its one of the last stages, something like delirium, before the final fading. They're close now. One's fallen silent entirely and the other bangs his head against the hold day and night, as if he can dash his own brains out upon them.

Cortes and his men will be none the wiser when they awake to an empty hold. They'll vaguely remember throwing bodies overboard after the fact, and think nothing further of stowaways.

 "Altivo! Hey, Altivo!"

The stallion turns. No, it's not his imagination. One of the sad little shadows is waving a ripe red apple up through the grate. He looks Altivo in the eye, as if they are equals, and a horse capable of conversing on his level.

Altivo morbidly wonders what has shocked the shadow back into sanity. Or maybe he's so far gone he doesn't know horses aren't supposed to reason back.

"You want a nice apple? You have to do a trick for me first."

Altivo's good will sours immediately. He has more dignity than this, even now.

Gods damn it, his eyes still follow the apple the gold-haired one waves beneath his nose. Even if the idiot doesn't know the weight of what he holds, an offering is an offering. And Altivo is starving.

"Miguel, you're talking to a horse!"

Altivo locates the keys and drops them into the hold.

_At least I remember what I am, you freaking idiots_ goes unsaid. Because neither understand his mocking whinny.

Not that remembering what he was changes what he _is._ When the storm takes them all, he's as powerless against the wind and the water as they are.

Their supplies already devastated, Miguel and Tulio burn through what is left in mere days. They think themselves bound by petty little human thirsts and hungers, because it is too painful to recall the pits that have eaten away at them for centuries, and will soon take what is left of them. And they still find the energy to moan about their situation long after any mere man would have had the common courtesy to drop dead from heatstroke and dehydration.

That's just how his fucking life is now.

* * *

"Tulio," Miguel manages roughly. "Did you ever imagine it would end like this?"

Because Miguel sure as hell hadn't. Part of him had naively expected to walk the roads of Spain forever, with only their plans and each other for company.

"The horse is a surprise."

Miguel can't help a slight smile, because Tulio's wit will be last to go. Still, he asks what his partner regrets most. Tulio's always been better with words. Maybe he can name that terrible feeling that's been eating away at Miguel for... well, as long he can recall.

"I never... had enough... gold." Tulio reaches out a hand, to grasp at what will never be there. "The security of it. The weight and warmth of it. Those suckers hold onto it so jealously that it's almost like holding... I dunno, Miguel."

"My greatest regret, besides dying, is..." His mouth works noiselessly for a long moment. How come the melody always comes so easy, and speaking his own soul never does? "Our greatest adventure is over before it even begun, and no one will even remember us."

And that is what makes him want to keen loudest of all.

Yet all they can do is find consolation in each other, for Tulio to admit he has made life an adventure, and for him to reveal how rich Tulio made him in turn. Wherever they started, they went through this life together, and they'll go out the same.

Until Miguel grasps for cool seawater and feels only golden sand pour through his fingers.

How had they reached land so quickly? They'd still been _days_ away from shore, when in an actual sailing ship, and not just drifting in a crappy little rowboat on endless doldrums.

It's an honest to god miracle, complete with the map still safely tucked away in his shirt and the giant, eagle-shaped rock _right there._ Despite the admittedly ominous golden sword left impaled through the rotted skeleton as warning, it's still solid ground and a path forward. Miguel just can't understand how Tulio is still so eager to jump right back in the rowboat and row all the way back to Spain.

Even if they could make it (and two men and a horse in a dinghy can't), Miguel knows beyond certainty that there is nothing left for them there.

With a bright smile and a spring to his step, he leads the way forward to a new beginning, and maybe gold and glory. The first step into the jungle feels almost like rebirth.

* * *

"I am Chief Tannabok. What names may we call you?"

His mouth goes dry. He licks his lips. There's _opportunity_ here, if he can just...

"Huh?" His partner cocks his head in earnest confusion, as if this chance for reinvention doesn't exist. "I am Miguel."

He bites down on a snarl and the urge to hit his partner, and grandly throws his arms out instead. "And I am Tulio," he proclaims, as if his name is so much more than what it is.

"And they call us..." Miguel nearly stumbles over himself as stage fright blanks his mind, but he recovers to cry, "Miguel and Tulio!"

Miguel and Tulio, called Miguel and Tulio. They bask in the wonder of a city who has no other idea what to call them, and Tulio does his best to swallow bitter disappointment. He doesn't even know why he feels so angry, like Miguel has robbed him of a chance to... to...

The thief they bumped into in the first place is spared by his cautious recommendation to release her, so that's something. Even when Tzekel-Kan's face dangerously twists as he snarls a final warning down at the woman, he still _obeys._ Tulio's heart flutters in satisfaction, before plummeting to his stomach when the high priest demands some of the awesome and terrible power Miguel has threatened to unleash upon them.

The people call for truth of their divinity neither Tulio nor Miguel can deliver, because they're so very, very _false_ and-

"Stop!" he cries, when he can take Miguel's panicked murmurs and the own pounding in his head no longer.

For a moment, there is peace. Perfect, utter peace. Tulio cracks his eyes open at the astonished gasps of the city. Then he too gapes up at the volcano inhaling its own aborted eruption. What. The. Hell...

Miguel is still dumbfounded, but a sharp jab to the ribs has him raising up his arms to grandly take credit for an actual gods damned miracle too.

"Don't make me start it up again, 'cause I will."

Tulio smiles and rolls his eyes, but is feeling far too good to call his partner out on it. For once, things are looking up.

* * *

 "Tulio, Tulio, they actually think we're gods!"

For a moment the two alleged divinities only glance at each other. Then Tulio's face breaks into a delighted grin. "It's a city full of suckers!"

He and Miguel laugh and laugh. Laugh, as if this all the greatest joke in the world. Laugh and joke to each other even as their more bestial companion snorts and rolls his eyes.

Chel tries very, very hard to pretend the sudden sinking of her stomach isn't disappointment. When she had first stumbled upon them, she had truly felt the nascent beginnings of... Well, feelings that shouldn't be wasted on mortal con man who just happened to be the right place at the right time to save her life.

Of course she calls them out on their con. She needs to get in to get out. They need her guidance to keep from Tzekel-Kan's sacrificial altars. Because, really, even their sheer dumb luck can't carry them forever.

Not that Chel has the time to teach them a damn thing about the holy days or blessing tribute before Manoa expects them for the feast. All she can do is through the proper garb at them and hope showmanship can once more save the day.

Not that her hopes are high. Tulio stumbles down the stairs and barely manages to save face after being bitten by one of Chief Tannabok's younger children. Already at the middle of the crowd of priests and acolytes, Chel is edging for the back, and a jaguar-ridden jungle that at least doesn't have angry crowds before her 'partners' even reach the wine. Enough diluted wine makes idiots out of all men. Her partners are idiots enough, and about to be downing the undiluted stuff reserved for the gods alone.

Most men pull faces at wine's sour taste. Her partners guzzle it down like water, much to the city's pleasure at seeing their tribute so well received. Even more fortunately, they have heroic constitutions, and remain suave and smiling where most would have fallen into slurring disgrace.

As their new high priestess, Chel has the authority to call for anything and everything that might please her gods. She sends for every distraction under the sun, dancers and drummers and demon masks. So long as the crowd is dazzled by the splendor, they won't scrutinize their 'gods' too closely.

Her boys rise to the occasion. Their illusions and sleights of hand are small things, not even true spells like those of the great high priests, but performed by 'gods' the people eagerly accept them as miracles. In the dizzying dark their performance is made even more impressive by the atmosphere. Chel can easily see how the unaware can truly believe Altivo capable of prancing over fire or Miguel of shifting his shadow into a thousand shapes.

As the night winds on and the weight of the day starts to weigh more heavily, even Chel's tired eyes start playing tricks on her. It's harder to see how Tulio manages to give _himself_ curled horns in the flickering shadows cast by the fire, or how Miguel's cold reading earns him a crowd clamoring to know their futures.

Eventually, even the 'gods' reach their alcoholic limits. Their graceful dances start to stumble and sometimes they slur so hard over their words it's like they're not speaking Manoan at all. How fortunate that the crowd is even drunker than they are.

"Haff you scheen my buhts?"

Chel manages a tight, weary smile for the witnesses when Tulio slings an arm over her shoulder. So much for trying to subtly herd at least one of the idiots to bed. "I'm afraid I don't understand, my lord."

"My _boots,"_ he repeats, before sticking up a bare foot to wiggle its toes in the air. "Winged bootshs. Can't mish them." He frowns at the steps. "N'like I _need_ 'em, but... Here, let me-"

Chel snatches his arm before Tulio can leap off the temple steps and crack his head open. "Maybe later, my lord. It's time for bed, remember?"

The deep, brilliant blue of Tulio's eyes allows them to smolder in a way that sends shivers down her back, even if the way he waggles his brows diminishes the effect somewhat. "Who shays we need a _bed?"_

Rolling her eyes, Chel hopefully looks about for a convenient nearby acolyte to help her with god-wrangling. Closest to them is Altivo. The stallion watches them from the base of the temple steps with eyes too dark and too deep to belong to a mere beast. Chel swallows thickly.

"My lord," she tries softly, for all other forms of address fall short on her tongue. "Can you please help me..."

She trails helplessly off, but Altivo is already trotting up to her. He snatches Tulio's pony tail in his teeth and, despite the man's whine of complaint, keeps dragging him to the refuge of the temple.

One problem solved, Chel uses her vantage point to search the crowd for Miguel's golden head. She spots him easily. He's spinning his way through the main square in a drunken dance. Despite his stumbling flourishes he still very much has the crowd under his thrall. Every comely warrior and maiden he drags onto the floor laughs and joins him as best they can, even more intoxicated he is. However, it is Miguel alone who dances back into the burning bed of coals, strumming an imaginary instrument as his bare feet cook.

Chel's heart flies to her throat, before she flies to him with a speed she did not know humanly possible. She snatches his hand and yanks from the fire. Miguel follows without complaint. Probably because he has the same dirty mind as his partner.

As they ascend the steps Miguel purrs into her ear. The words are alien to Chel, but she shivers at the tone all the same. Maybe, when they're closed away from the crowds, she can-

Chel's faint whisper of arousal dies a sudden death atop the temple steps. Altivo stands, stoic as a statue, even as a sobbing Tulio repeatedly pummels his side with his fists.

"S-Stupid _horse!_ S-Stupid, fucking _horse!"_

Miguel breaks away from her side to snatch Tulio's arms. "Easy, easy now! It's not the old boy's fault, t-that-"

"He's _here,_ isn't he?" Tulio snarls into his face, whaling against Miguel's chest instead. "A-And t-t-they're..."

Tulio's face crumbles. He sobs into Miguel's chest, while his partner murmurs sweet nothings and strokes his hair. Chel hangs uneasily back when they weep together, heartsick for them and oh so very confused. Hopelessly she glaces at Altivo. The stallion flicks an ear and stares stonily back.

Altivo stands guard, but when their tears are spent her boys go meek as fawns to the bath, because the last thing anyone needs is Tzekel-Kan storming in at dawn to discover his gods dirtied and disheveled. Chel inspects Miguel's naked chest for signs of burgeoning bruises, and heaves a sigh of relief to find it unmarred. With a wince she next inspects his feet. She furrows her brow when she finds not a single burn or blister.

When her partners are dressed in the same cleaned clothes they arrived in, Chel and Altivo shepherd them to bed. Together they climb in, clinging to the other like a life-line.

Altivo nods, turns, and gallops away into the dark. Chel is alone, with only two men lost in drunken despair and countless questions screaming in her head.

But there's only one that really matters. So she sucks in a breath, waits an eternity, and dares to ask, "W-What happened to... them?"

Her boys blink despondently up at her. Stripped of their brashness and bluster they look so very, very small in the dark.

"G-Gone," Tulio murmurs. "T-They're all _gone!"_

_"Dead!"_  Miguel sobs, before he cocks his head back to keen like a wounded animal.

The sound lances through Chel's heart, and amplifies when Tulio joins in. At a loss, she scrambles into bed after them. There's no space between them, but she squeezes in anyway, to better soothe them best. Her clumsy attempts at stroking their hair and clutching their hands and whispering what platitudes she can quiet them down somewhat.

Eventually exhaustion claims her. Down Chel sinks into darkness.

Chel dreams of family; mothers and wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.

And, every last one, she dreams swallowed by oblivion. Until she is all alone, with only two other small specks of light to cling to.

And cling to them she does. She's never letting go; not now, and not ever.

* * *

 Only much later, with human sacrifice successfully diverted and their escape ship being built, does Chel find the space to fall back and process all the hell that has happened in the last few hours.

First she drills the bare basics of Manoan religion, because gods forbid they don't know who the Jaguar God is or the Dual Gods' role in the very world they have created.

Then, she bites her lip and carefully tries to ask them about the night before. For a moment two sets of guileless eyes stare blankly back at her. Then as one they groan and rub at the remnants of prodding hangovers.

"Good gods," Tulio moans. "How much did we have to drink last night?"

"Too much," Miguel answers simply.

Tulio glowers. "Why didn't I hold you back? We all know what happens when you drink too much! You danced all over the place l-like a drunk goose or something!"

"E-Excuse me? I'm a graceful swan, thank you. And when _I_ drink too much? You didn't have the self-control to _not_ paw after any pretty face you saw, you horny old goat-"

Chel blinks in bemusement when the conversation devolves into blaming and shaming. She can't help a little smile at it, because they bicker exactly like her grandparents did.

"I think it's obvious bad things happen when _both of you_ drink," she cuts in at last.

They pull faces at her but concede her point. Then Tulio groans and sinks back against a heaping pile of gold. "No drinking for three days, Miguel. No... _anything._ But how do we keep all this up for _three days?"_

"You worry too much."

And _then_ comes the argument where Tulio coerces Miguel into promising to lie low. Then, leaving their partner to sulk, he promptly turns to start kissing gold like a sea-stranded man kisses solid ground.

Seeing her opportunity, Chel takes it. Miguel needs very little convincing to sneak off. What's the worst he can stumble into on his own? Besides, she needs answers, and she'll have better luck without both of them distracting each other from the matters at hand.

Tulio's ego needs very little stroking for him to cough up at least a few tricks of the trade. A bit of flair here lets her switch the proffered coin from one hand to the other, to sneak out from behind his ear. With the shadows glinting just so, he shows her how to twists her very hands, and casts very convincing figures on the wall. In broad daylight Chel can admire the human ingenuity behind the illusions and stop marveling at the magic. So she relaxes, and enjoys honest human trickery for what it is.

She's so content, she almost misses the next trick.

"Wait." Chel sits up from where she has comfortably leaned against the couch, squinting against the sunlight. "Show me again."

With a patient smile Tulio does again. And again. "Look Chel, you just do this and...." By the seventh time he's frowning, but despite his perplexed expression each flourish of his hand has quite clearly plucked a coin from thin air. Not from his sleeve or tucked behind his air, but from _nothing._

Chel can't point this out to him before Tzekel-Kan once more arrives to ruin everything. Because somehow trying to push Tulio into accepting a human sacrifice has resulted him and Miguel getting both roped into a ballgame against Chief Tannabok's fifteen fiercest warriors.

No matter their little quirks, her boys are very much losing the game until she can secretly swap the armadillo in. Now _that_ is a real miracle, a messenger sent from Lord Bibi the Trickster himself.

When their literal salvation is accidentally kicked out of bounds halfway through, and once more switched out for a mundane ball, Chel at first does all she can to warn them. Then, poor concussed little armadillo in her hands, she watches as their graceful dodges and flying kicks grow all the more impressive. Inhumanly so. Even when Miguel nearly fumbles the last kick, he is still quite clearly _hanging in midair_ until the goal sinks in.

Chel stares intently at his face. The long, thin scratch at his temple stands out to her even if no other Manoan has yet noticed. Her heart flies into the throat at the small, telltale bead of red that drips down from it.

Then her eyebrows fly to her hairline when the wound weaves itself, leaving not even a scar behind. Miguel mindlessly wipes the blood and sweat from his brow, and thinks nothing of it. The crowd notices nothing.

* * *

With the casting down of Tzekal-Kan and human sacrifice, Miguel is carried off by his adoring public. Chel wants to tear her hair out in frustration when he gets carried off before she can ask for clarity on a single gods damn thing.

Well... at least she has Tulio. Tulio, who lives for her praise and her questions like a flower does sunlight or a dog human affection. They steal away into the night, away from prying eyes and unwelcome whispers. Beneath the stars he readily dances for her and plays a set of pipes she has never seen him pull out before. Most readily, he regales her with his and Miguel's exploits; the time they swindled a village of all its silver, when they stole into a wedding and accidentally debauched both the bridge and bridegroom, the time Tulio slew that hundred-eyed giant all on his own-

Chel blinks. She can't have heard that one right. "I'm sorry, what?"

Tulio grins sheepishly. "I think the bride winked at Miguel, and the groom smiled at me... or was it the other way around? Either way, then the wine came out and... well... they caught me in the hayloft. And Miguel in the bridal bed. With the opposites of who we had intended to end up with. Granted, no one was complaining..."

On it goes. Until she asks, "Where did you say you were from again?"

Before he has answered Emporion and Mount Cyllene, Olympus and Rome, a little backwater village in the middle of nowhere. This time he absently starts with, "Oh, some cave in Arcadia. Mom wasn't supposed to have me, but my father was my father and his wife was  _pissed..._ "

Not a single answer is a lie. Chel knows him now. So once more she tries, "Who was your father?"

He answers raging asshole and whore-mongerer, Zeus and Jupiter, king and tyrant. Everything except confirmation for what she craves above all else.

There's no way to ask tactfully, no way for her to ask about the slips Tulio forgets the moment he blurts them out. All Chel can do is smile, and try once more in a way that won't crumble whatever small, beautiful thing is building between them.

Tulio drops into a dance again, even more passionate and hypnotic is the last. His grand finale is to pull out a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and thin air. It's a miracle even before the petals fly off as a flock of violet birds. Chel stares after them, breathless.

"Who are you?" she murmurs, when she means to hold it forever in her heart.

With a smirk he puffs out his chest. "I'm Tulio, the..." He falters. Then he smiles again, sheepish and sad and earnest. "Just... Tulio."

 Why does he say that like it's not enough? He's her savior and her sleazy liar, her con artist and her partner.

So Chel leans forward and tells him the truth with a kiss.

For a moment he's as surprised as she is about it. Then he tips his head forward to turn it into _more._

It's passionate and impulsive. It's tied with one other thing for what she wants second above all else in the world. It's utterly, irrevocably _wrong._

Chel pulls away. Tulio clutches after her for a heartbeat, before he drops his hands. His eyes are wide and hurt and lost. "B-But _why?"_

"Miguel," she answers, for that is all there is to be said.

Not that Tulio understands. His eyes narrow. "Who cares about Miguel?"

Chel stares long and hard at him. "Uh, _you_ do? I most definitely do, and this is just..." _How can there be a 'this' without him?_

Tulio's eyes darken. "Forget about Miguel. _I'm_ here. _I_ saved you. You're _my-"_

Chel scowls into his face, darkly satisfied when he's the one to retreat. Better anger than that slowly creeping fear. "I'm a _human fucking being._ I belong to myself, and I owe you nothing."

He takes an uncertain step back. "I-I..."

She cocks her head, morbidly curious. "You forget a lot, don't you? Things that are inconvenient to you, like who you are or where you came from. Things that maybe will remind you about standards, about people you'd hurt to let down. Do you even remember what you want from me?"

Tulio trembles. With wide eyes he holds up shaking hands as if they don't even belong to him. He refuses to look her way before sputtering and disappearing into the dark.

For a moment Chel stares after where he vanished. Then she releases a shuddering sigh and turns away. She makes her way back to the temple, because she knows it's the one place in Manoa he won't be dropping by tonight, if ever again.

It's a long walk back, but Altivo breezes out of the night right when her feet are beginning to ache. He nickers, bending low. First Chel hugs his neck for a long moment, because he is warm and reliable and has never claimed to be what he truly is not. Then at last she climbs onto his back. He gallops like the wind, but she never fears falling. For a moment her heart soars with him and all is once more right in the world.

She hopes Miguel is there. She knows down in her bones he is capable of healing all things, but is not surprised to find the temple dark and empty. She curls into their bed alone.

Chel's nursing an aching heart and wounded soul. There are too many out there in the city's outskirts suffering worse than she herself tonight.

* * *

To commemorate his final miraculous shot Miguel allows himself to be tied in ropes and suspended from Chalchi's ceiling. The stone carver deserves the best possible model to memorialize his pose, and Miguel does his best to provide. He also politely declines offers of more ropes to better support the pose or breaks in between. He's more than capable of holding this pose for an hour or four, especially because Chalchi is so enthralling to watch. He pounds away at his vision like a man possessed.

When he finishes he shows turns it to Miguel for inspection. Miguel offers him a hearty thumbs up and a promise to wrangle Tulio in for a quick sketch before they depart, so Chalchi can set his image into place alongside Miguel's for eternity.

Miguel has every intention of returning to the temple after that, honest. Tulio must be worried sick for him and together they've worried Chel enough as it is.

And then he spots the first rat trailing that little boy. He doesn't understand how the people around them are so willfully blind to the little pest snapping at the poor child's heels. With no weapon at hand, Miguel settles for punting the nasty thing into a wall. It dies on impact.

There are so many more, in Manoa's outskirts. The servant caste are not allowed to live in the central city. No, they must inhabit the tightly crowded old buildings and dirty streets where all the nasty pests lurk. There's too many to count - rats and snakes gnawing on blistered feet, flies biting at open sores, bats fluttering around stealing blood and breath.

So, despite all the faces he pulls, Miguel kicks and slaps and squishes. What a fortunate night to be wearing shoes.

The people he helps automatically look more at ease when he solves their pest problems. They look even better when he helps them to their feet or from their beds, when he passes them handkerchiefs to wipe the rheum from their eyes or one last slap on the back to clear up whatever was making it so hard for them to breathe. Their gratitude is almost overwhelming. There's only so many stuttered thanks and tearful hugs one man can take in a night. So Miguel clears his throat and makes his awkward escapes.

Some of the people he helps are thoughtful enough to offer morsels of food or small cups of milky pulque. Miguel eagerly accepts every bit offered to him. Pest control is hungry, tiring work after all.

Others notice his disgusted looks when he once more wipes his feet on stone or cleans his hands on some old rag. They offer him weapons, knives and clubs and even walking sticks. Miguel politely tests them all before handing them back to their original owners. He's already killing far too close for comfort. Might as well keep on as is and let these people keep tools actually useful to them.

However, one canny old man offers him up something else. "Please, my lord," he requests humbly. "It does these old eyes no good anymore, and none of my boys can hunt for shit anyway."

Miguel of course puts up a token protest but is powerless to prevent the old bow from being passed into his hands. He caresses its curves like a lover. Despite its age the weapon is well-loved. He knows from how supple it feels in its hands, how easily it pulls for him when he tests its tautness. "Yes," he murmurs. "Good. Very good." Nearly forgetting his manners, he smiles apologetically at the old archer. "Thank you. So much. This is perfect."

With the bow in his hand it's only natural to sling the proffered quiver over his shoulder too. Can't have one without the other.

The moon is full and bright tonight. There's no shortage of light, and no shortage of targets.

Miguel smirks as he lines up his first shot, some ugly little monkey-thing with the gall to run from him. He lets his arrow fly. A measly three hundred yards away, it burrows into its target's back, and an infant lets out her first healthy squall in weeks.

It's his most satisfying hunt in... Well, a long time. Whenever Miguel last killed a giant snake, he supposes.

By dawn he's out of targets, so Miguel makes his last goodbyes to the people and heads over to inspect progress on the ship. His heart sinks when he discovers the vessel fully finished and Chief Tannabok overseeing the first part of its loading. Spotting him, the man cheerfully waves him hello. It's so heartfelt that Miguel can't help but smile back, no matter how wistfully.

"Good morning, my lord!" Chief Tannabok calls, before eyeing the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. "Eventful night?"

Miguel shrugs. "Just some light pest control."

He climbs aboard to inspect the vessel for himself. Tulio knows nothing about sailing, but over the years Miguel has picked up a thing or two. He hopes to find a flaw so great the chief has no choice but to scrap this attempt and rebuild anew. Hopefully that could buy him another week minimum here.

But the ship is flawless. Not only will it effortlessly navigate the winding rivers downstream, but is sturdy enough to brave the open ocean with only a crew of three to man it. Really, the only thing resembling a flaw is this ship's utter lack of adornment. Miguel fights to repress his smirk.

"A fine start, but is it really fit to carry gods yet?"

"My lord?" Chief Tannabok tries, face falling into uncertainty.

"I've been around boats, believe me," Miguel starts easily. "It's a fine base, certainly, but you're giving us all this gold and you can't take the extra week to give us a boat just as splendid?"

"You... require more gold, my lord? To gild the ship?"

Miguel frowns guiltily at their tribute, a king's treasury all on its own already. "N-No. It's heavy enough as it is. Don't want to lug up anything else into the heavens. Maybe just use some the gold already here and hammer it over the hull. That should only take a week or two, yes?"

The chief glances from the ship to the gold before fixating on him. Miguel's neck beads with sweat beneath his stare. "You know, Lord Miguel, if you wish to stay you need only say so."

"You mean..." _For the rest of my life?_ "Forever?"

"Of course," Tannabok says warmly, as if it is that simple.

"Oh," he murmurs. "Oh, no. I can't. I have to go back with Tulio. We're- We're partners. Where he goes, I go. It's been like that since... Since practically forever."

"Big plans in the other world, huh?"

"Yep," he says with a wry smile. "Big plans. C-Can't put off the inevitable forever."

Chief Tannabok nearly frowns, mouth twisting as if biting back some question that might as well be blasphemy. "Well, then, I better get my goldsmiths on top of this, huh? Can't have the gods go off in an unworthy vessel."

He turns. Miguel almost reaches out to clasp his arm, but stops himself in time. No matter the context, god and mortal, or chief and pretender, the contact isn't appropriate. "Oh, Chief, um, forget about the gild. My mistake. Our vessel's perfect as is."

"Hey, to err is human."

Miguel, about to leap over the deck, freezes. He looks back at Tannabok, who smiles knowingly back at their inside joke.

Miguel laughs and laughs. Laughs until he realizes he's weeping.

He feels the reassuring warmth of Tannabok on his back. "Mig-My lord, what's wrong?" At last he lays a strong, steady hand on Miguel's shoulder.

It's too much. Miguel clutches the railing so hard he feels hard, sturdy wood splinter beneath his fingers. The _crack_ is so loud that the chief startles and retreats. Yet, despite his shameless tears, Miguel still smiles when he glances back at Tannabok. "I don't remember," he freely admits. "Isn't that what makes this all so _funny_?"

He vaults over the edge before he can do more to wreck Manoa's hard work. He lands like a cat on the dock below, absently brushing the splinters from his hands. He doesn't bother wiping the tears from his face, and no one bothers him on the way back to the temple. They're much too busy gawking at the blue larkspurs he's never noticed poking out of the stone streets before. Funny how such a pretty flower always leaves him feeling sadder.

By the time he ascends the temple steps, the sadness has receded back into whatever deep well is within him. He hopes only for Tulio's firm arms and gentle murmurs that everything is going to be alright.

Chel slams into him first. Miguel has no clue what's going on, but he strokes her hair and does his best to soothe her anyway. The event of last night come out in a breathless gush. He holds her teady through it, even as his fingernails bite into his palms at Tulio's _atrocious_ behavior.

"He's always jealous and selfish," Miguel murmurs at last, as he tries for some explanation. "He's so much more, of course, but it doesn't change that ugly part... of..."

Chel's sharp look ends his trailing thought. "You mean, he didn't try to come find you last night?"

"No. I haven't seen him... since..." Miguel's eyes hopelessly scan the room. They stop, and stare, when he realizes that statement is technically a lie. "Oh," he murmurs.

Tulio's image stares him in the face. It smiles down from atop a horse-faced serpent, from right next to Miguel's own.

Fear grips him, cold and primal, when he remembers where their partner might have gone. Now it's his turn to clutch at Chel for balance.

"Tulio," he breathes desperately. "We have to find him, before..."

He squeezes Chel's hands, and her own eyes widen with that terrible understanding. 

They scour the temple and the arena and the altar of Xibalba, and find nothing.

Perhaps there is nothing left to find.

When Miguel is ready to sink into despair, and his feet threaten to give out beneath him, Chel is always there to snarl in his face and pull him onward. They tear Manoa apart again and again, searching for their partner, their Tulio, someone who must _still_ be out there.

They search all day. They search past sunset and into the night, celebrations be damned.

Until a temple comes rumbling down.

Chel and Miguel freeze, as one turning to gawk at the monstrous jade jaguar ripping itself free from tumbled stone. Its green, flowing eyes swing across the city before fixating upon them.

Miguel bares his teeth in a vicious grin as the city's panicked screams reorganize his priorities somewhat. Kill giant cat creep now, find and beat sense into Tulio later.

"Keep trying to find Tulio," he instructs her. "I got this."

"Like hell," she snarls, and tears after him.

Miguel lengthens his stride with every intention of safely leaving her in the dust. Unfortunately she matches him stride for stride.

Before the colossus can bring its paws down on yet another brave bunch of warriors, Miguel swings his bow around.  His single shot shatters one gemstone eye like glass. With an agonized shriek the jaguar forgets about trampling warriors to clutch at its broken eye with a giant stone paw. It's all the distraction Chel needs to pick up the spear of a fallen fighter and hurl it into the cat's throat. It shatters against solid stone, but the jaguar still chokes in outrage on a mouthful of splinters.

In its single-minded rage the jade jaguar fixates solely upon them. Away they lure it from a city of civilians, into a fighting ground where neither of them need hold back.

* * *

He runs with only half a frantic thought of what exactly he's running from.

Not like he ever gets very far without something to distract him. There's so many lost souls out here tonight. Their cries and sniffles and wails draw him in, because he can't very well focus on his own inner turmoil with their despair getting in the way. So he strikes up torches against the desolate dark and gets them where they need to go. He helps this lost old drunk over his shoulder and delivers him into the bed of a friend. He shakes his light in the face of some spotted cat, picks up the dirt-stained little boy it was sniffing at, and hands him off to a sobbing mother back in town. One shroud-wrapped little girl he escorts through a very shady part of town and back to the grandmother eagerly awaiting her safe return.

Somewhere along the way, he gives up the ghost on running. What's the use in outrunning yourself?

He frowns in contemplation at the dark jungle and the shining eyes awaiting him. Instead his feet carry him to the altar from that first fateful dawn. He hesitates on the lip, before wandering out to the utter edge. There he plops himself down, where his feet can dangle over the roaring whirlpool hundreds of feet below. The gateway to Xibalba, they call it.

He sits there for a very long time, but the roar of the waters only does so much to drown out his own thoughts. One by one, the memories come back, each more unpleasant than the last.

Theft and deceiving Manoa's open hearts are the least of his crimes. When he dwells on what else he is guilty of, he shudders and once more tries to wretch. He has nothing else to throw back up but even more atrocities.

Sometimes, from far off, he hears the frantic cries of his partners. Even when they get almost close enough to touch, they might as well be worlds away. He never worries about either finding him. He's very got at not being found, when he wants to be.

He's been putting this off for a very, very long time. He's been so fearful he's allowed himself to forget, again and again. It's time to let go.

Any minute now.

He jumps at the sudden breeze tugging at his hair, the clop of hooves on cobbled stone. It's the perfect excuse to finally fall. If only his grip on the sides weren't so strong.

"Hello, horse," he calls out dryly without turning away from the mouth of oblivion. "Come to witness the end?"

Altivo snorts and stomps his hoof, but comes no closer. His mouth twists into something wry. "Guess you had the right idea, falling back onto animal instinct like that. Nothing beats that primal drive to stay alive. Not even good old human fear." He skews his eyes shut. "Or maybe you just don't have the same old sins dragging you down. You guys never had the same drive for rape and murder, did you? And we all but killed you."

"They were right to forget us," he croaks out, because Altivo is silent still. _"I_ was right to forget us. If only I could let go of it all, too. But _no._ Still too selfish enough for that, you know?"

He should let go now. Right now. No matter his names, they're all just different epithets for something best left forgotten. For Chel's sake, for Miguel's sake.

So what's holding him back?

A far off rumble makes him wonder if the earth is once more voicing her displeasure at his presence, as if the smoking volcano weren't omen enough. But that's not the case. His head jerks up at the scream of a monstrous cat. The sound is ancient, and stirs something just as deep within him. At the sound of human screaming his eyes narrow in resolve, because gods be damned if he isn't still that self-righteous prick of a shepherd rising for those he dubs his flock.

Big cat first, personal angst second.

Tulio stands, a torch sparking in one hand and unsheathing his golden blade in the other. They're both very good things to have right now. How good he's remembered them.

Altivo gallops toward the din of battle. Tulio flies with him. Yet, where the stallion thunders blindly on, he pauses at the faintest whisper of something _else._

Altivo is a horse, open and honest, without use for human wiles. Tulio has that in spades, thank you very much. He reaches up to pluck the thinnest strand of something _foul,_ something woven of sorcery and sacrifice. He pays the puppet no mind, when he can follow the strings straight to the puppet master.

Tzekel-Kan is too caught up in playing cat and mouse through his little avatar. He could go straight for the killing blow... but Tulio is not, and never will be, that merciful. Instead he plunges his sword straight into the man's gut.

The spell breaks. Tzekel-Kan staggers back, returning to himself in time to clutch at his gaping wound in stunned disbelief. His bewildered gaze flicks up from his bloodied hands, to bloodstained gold, before he _sees_ what the torchlight illuminates.

"N-No," he stammers. "Y-You can't be _really_ a-"

Tulio smiles grimly. "But I am. I'm all that you'd feared I would be, and then some."

He brings his blade down. In one clean stroke, it's done.

One idle flick has the gore flying from his blade, but he still grimaces at the much larger mess left behind. One twitch of his fingers makes the scene a little less... unpleasant. The body sprouts roots and thorns until it is some gnarled little tree. The severed head becomes a large, poisonous mushroom.

Leaving death behind, Tulio stalks forward to see the Jaguar God's avatar thoroughly dispatched. He's been beaten to the punch. Altivo slams his hooves down a final time on shattered stone riddled with arrows and spears. With a hearty, triumphant laugh Miguel drops his bow to spin a squealing Chel in a circle. She fondly smooshes his cheeks between her hands before surging up to claima kiss eagerly returned.

Tulio stumbles into a retreat, snapping every twig in his wake. Their eyes fall upon him, and there's no escaping before they tackle him.

He braces himself for a well-deserved thrashing. He gets slaps and shouts and screamed accusations about his selfishness and idiocy. Then Tulio blubbers when he too gets squished cheeks and eager kisses and sobs into his chest. Between squeezing hugs and sucking kisses he confusedly promises to never, ever do that to them ever again. Really.

He and Miguel both yelp like startled puppies when Chel interrupts their joyous reunion to snag them both by the ears. She smiles sweetly at them both. "And, most importantly, can you two idiots not forget about... you know, _actually being what you are_ again? Because it's no fun being around those that can't remember their lessons."

They promise, and promise again. With whispered exaltation and every last skill in their very large repertoires.

Their time as one could have lasted forever, if not for a very rude interruption shortly after dawn. Miguel and Tulio both groan annoyance at the smoke on the horizon. Chel frowns up at them both.

"What is it now?" she huffs.

"Cortes," Miguel breathes in horror.

At the same time, Tulio huffs, "Soul-crushing monotheism."

Then they look long and hard at each other, seeing everything they had allowed themselves to go blind to. Their faces split into twin smirks.

So does Chel's, when they recommend what should come next.

* * *

El Dorado is near. Cortes can nearly _taste it._ This wide path, so clearly marked by natural way points, leads to a conquest beyond compare. At times he and his faithful can even glimpse curvaceous Indian women fleeing into the trees, the glimpse of golden temples beyond the mountain peaks.

It matters how not they wander the route in endless circles. The right turn to the boundary is just there, somewhere. What does it matter if they all trudge on foot, now? That a storm so early in the expedition startled all the horses away into the jungle? Now he too marches on the level of his men. He can more closely maintain order, when discipline starts to break down. The weaker of his soldiers start stealing from each other, bits of rations and little luxuries from home. When he strings their corpses up for theft and murder and sedition, their rotted bones at least let them know what trails not to take.

There is no one demon to blame, only a ruthless wilderness. There are the crocodiles that snatch men when they ford the rivers and the snakes and great cats that snatch them at night. There is an endless litany of plagues that hemorrhage their numbers.

Worst all, however, are the evils that lurk in the hearts of men, their fear and boredom and avarice. It eats away at their faith in each other and the Christian sacraments that should keep them strong in this godless land. Most of all it, it eats away at their faith and fear in _him._

The twentieth time his ragged expedition stumbles across that smirking heathen idol in the middle of nowhere is where the storm finally breaks.

"Onward, men!" Cortes calls, as he tries to set them down a path he is certain they have never tread before.

His men turn toward him instead. There is no gunpowder left, but they draw knives and swords and bayonets instead.

"Traitors!" he snarls at them, drawing his own blade as his own small band of still faithful followers close ranks around him. "I'll have you hanged for sedition!"

Then his body guards, his last faithful, turn their blades on him.

Cortes has enough strength left to kill the first traitor and parry the second blow, before the onslaught becomes too much. Through a black-red haze, his last sight is of the heathen idol. All four gods of El Dorado smirk and wave at him, before the blades come hacking down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The terrible things Apollo and Mercury both pull off in mythology are too numerous and depressing to list. Having all that come seeping back to you... Yeah. Tulio and Miguel have gone through some very dark moods in the main verse of my stories. Here it's no different.
> 
> Hermes/Mercury is a thief god, a herding god, and also a shepherd of various lost souls, living travelers and the dead alike ; )
> 
> Apollo is a god of song, prophecy, herding, healing, plague, and archery. The blue larkspur is a literal manifestation of his grief over Hyacinthus, killed by either by Apollo on accident or a spiteful wind god.


	7. speaker of the gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When given the choice to babble like an idiot or just keep quiet, Tulio listens to his little voice... and just keeps quiet.
> 
> Huh. Maybe the horse is right. Cryptic silence is the way to go.
> 
> Or: Miguel and Tulio don't need to do the talking. That's what their priestess is for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LOT lighter than the last one, I swear.

"Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

Tulio flinches and peers around for the inevitable smiting, but there's no angry deity standing behind them, even if that volcano is smoking ominously. That means the crowd is looking only at him and...

Oh. Oh _f-_

Miguel's face twists with smug contemplation. As the priest and chief introduce themselves, Tulio nudges his partner in the ribs. Just once, so the idiot will stop reminiscing about the glory days and pay very careful attention to the tiny shake of his head and pursing of his lips.

Because, although a large part of Tulio urges him to babble his way out of this mess, his little voice whispers _keep quiet, let them assume, build up the belief naturally and -_

"What names may we call you?" Chief Tannabok requests.

"I am Miguel," his partner grandly announces. No one realizes he first waits for Tulio's sliver of a nod.

"And I am Tulio."

"And they call us Miguel and Tulio!" Miguel's radiant smile never fades, even though it strains ever so slightly when Tulio digs his heel into his foot.

Chief Tannabok tries to politely push for solid answers, such as how long they actually plan to stay in his city. Tzekel-Kan's blood thirst for punishing the temple-robber conveniently interrupts.

"My lord, I am not a thief. See, the gods sent me a vision... to bring them tribute from the temple to guide them here. My only wish is to serve the gods."

The thief sends them a pleading, urgent look even as Tzekel-Kan turns for their guidance. Tulio bites down on his tongue, arches an eyebrow, and gives the high priest a long, expectant stare. Without a word Tzekel-Kan clenches his teeth, releases the thief, and pushes her toward the temple.

"My lords, why now do you choose to visit us?"

"Enough, you do not question the gods!" Tzekel-Kan snarls for them.

Stoic as statues, Miguel and Tulio hold their breaths, hope against hope... And the volcano stops smoking. Tzekel-Kan smirks triumphantly and the chief quietly gasps. Without further delay they're escort up to _their_ temple.

Huh. Maybe the horse is right. Cryptic silence _is_ the way to go.

At the top the high priest proposes a reverent ceremony at dawn and the chief a glorious feast for that very night. One long stare has them bowing and rushing off to do _both._

Behind their backs, Tulio and Miguel share a victory grin.

* * *

"Tulio. Tulio! They actually think we're gods... and we barely even said anything!"

He huffs a laugh. "Well, yeah, Miguel. That's kind of how it works, remember?"

"But-"

"Rocks don't talk," he rebuffs. "Not until people pile them up by the side of the road and give them _purpose."_ And grants it a name, carves it a face, and prays that, through miracle or otherwise, that rock will _talk back._ "Or expect something more than a nice little drink out of a spring, or a light head from a vapor-spewing hole in the ground."

"Oh yeah," Miguel murmurs, before tacking on, "To be fair, you were a very nice pile of rocks. Very handsome and very... well-endowed."

Tulio smirks. "Thank you. And you've always made yourself a pretty face, spring or otherwise." Even when that face had only been another of one of those early, ranting old oracles. Miguel had done very... interesting things through them, when both oracle and divinity had willingly moved as one.

For a moment Miguel returns the grin, before his expression falls back into desperate, threadbare hope. "...Do you really think this will work?"

"I don't know, Miguel," he answers honestly, for in times like these he can never lie, not even to spare his partner. "I don't remember the last time we had to start practically from scratch. Especially in, you know, an open place where we stand more than a snowball's chance in hell of actually finding ourselves a niche." Even those first Greek and Roman colonists to Iberia had come in large ships, from established cults. The moment they had planted their settlement walls their deities had a solid base of operation. "Stranger cults have been accepted though, right? I mean, didn't some grandson of yours literally start off as a puppet or something?"

"Glycon," Miguel answers with a small, sad smile. "His priest had a heart attack when he started speaking on his own."

"See?" Tulio soothes. "It's okay to ease back, Miguel, and let the belief build up on its own. People don't get suspicious when they already talked themselves into knowing who we are, and what we do."

His partner's brow furrows. "What if we really, _really_ don't like how they use our names?"

"Corrective measures, Miguel! Didn't you used to be really fond of plague?" Assuming, of course, their belief builds up to a degree first for such a thing to be possible...

Miguel, who has always had a better eye for the situation, frowns further. "That Tzekel-Kan fellow is a bit of a _zealous_ type, isn't he? A bit eager on us visiting our wrath down on all who disagree with him?"

Tulio grimaces. "Point taken. I mean, yeah, he _predicted_ our coming, but the one who claimed we came to her in a vision was..."

The clever, quick-thinking thief from earlier claims her perfect time to come out of hiding. "That would be me, my lords." She waves reflexively to them, and can't help her incredulous smile when they wave back. She ducks into a quick bow, but from her wince she's been crouching in eavesdropping too long for it to come easily. "I'm Chel, your new priestess."

Her gods glance at each other... and grin.

* * *

 And, with one blurted out sentence, Chel claims the leadership of a fledgling cult for herself. The long-awaited Dual Gods have no tradition of their own, but these are _Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio._ They've come to her in a vision and expect her to ease their arrival into the pantheon. Because she's said so. And hasn't keeled over dead for it yet.

Maybe they're just really convincing con artists or outright delusional. But they're not. She needs them to be the real deal, and accepted as such.

When Chel cautiously suggests a change of clothes to have the city more readily accept them as belonging to them, and help further their _uncanny_ resemblance to the Dual Gods, her gods promptly drop their pants. Despite their smirks she blushes and quickly whips around, because ogling naked divinity is probably grounds for at least a blinding, if not a smiting.

Besides, she can't stay. Though Chief Tannabok has so helpfully provided the groundwork for the feast, it's her job as head priestess of this cult to arrange matters in a way most pleasing to her gods.

And take charge she does. Chel's been an acolyte for a very long time. She's frantically served food and danced at a hundred festivals for a dozen different gods, enduring the demands of their priests and priestesses. She knows what works and what doesn't.

So Chel spares no expense. In quick succession she calls up dancers and drummers, sparklers and cigars, puppets and performers. She inundates the crowds with all the best the city has to offer, to wow their audience and win their affection for her gods.

Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio readily rise to the occasion. They need little boasting because they simply  _are_ amazing. From thin air they conjure toys for the children in the crowd and a bottomless feast for their parents. Even Lord Altivo, who has not yet deigned speak a word, calls in a wind that steals the unwelcome moisture and mosquitoes from the square. At Lord Miguel's touch a hundred people throw off their ailments and Lord Tulio drips the unadorned in priceless treasure.

With her gods increasingly godly, and the rest of the night stuffed with activities until practically dawning, Chel sucks in a breath and steals herself to head off impending disaster.

"Wait, Chel!"

Chel holds back a yelp, because up until a heartbeat ago Miguel had clearly been strumming some stringed instrument across the square. Now he stands a respectful distance in front of her, green eyes wide and earnest. She raises her chin, because she knows he knows what she intends to do. What she _must_ do.

"I have to do this, Miguel," she answers. "He doesn't speak for you, and he sure as hell doesn't deserve a single word from you or Tulio." Because that's _her_ responsibility, and it's _her_ chance to finally put Tzekel-Kan in his place.

"I know," he murmurs. "I've just come to spare you a bit of time, if you'd like."

Because Chel's first stop is not the Jaguar God's temple. She will not march before Tzekel-Kan half-naked from the clothes allowed to acolytes and with the dull, worthless green stones of the servant class. Even if it means ordering some frantic attendant to hastily pull together something roughly respectable for a high priestess.

"Show me, please."

In one grandiose gesture Miguel pulls her a dress from thin air. One that could be worn by a chieftess, or a high priestess. It's bright red with trimmings of white around the sleeves and hems.

It's perfect. Almost like...

She arches a brow at him. "Did you just glance into the future to see what I would have chosen anyway?"

He shrugs sheepishly. "You would've found it. Eventually. After ten duds and.... Well." He clears his throat. "First vision in over a thousand years. And a very important one at that. Can't have our high priestess be anything less than one hundred percent satisfied."

Chel grins. When Miguel offers a hand, she takes it. In one deft spin her old clothes are gone, replaced by a dress worthy of the gods. Miguel twirls her one last time, because she really wants to watch skirt flare like something out of a dance. She thanks him with a kiss on the cheek before pulling away.

Hey, her cult, her rules. If people want to mutter about blasphemy then they can go out and bring back their own damn physical gods.

"Thank you, Miguel," she murmurs. "It's perfect."

So perfect, it almost makes up for...

Chel gasps. The breeze that ruffles her hair suddenly makes her ears so light, free of a familiar weight she's worn for years. She reflexively covers her naked ear lobes, glowering at the smirking god that has appeared beside her and Miguel.

"Thief!"

"Lord of thieves, thank you," Tulio corrects. With a placatory grin he offers her a tribute of his own. "Please, try these instead."

They're solid gold, the sort of adornment only those born into a high station are privileged enough to wear. Until tonight, that is. Because of course this gift is also perfect.

Chel takes the earrings from him to pin in herself, because she can't let those clever fingers on her body until she has the time and place to properly appreciate them. "Did you peak into the future for these too?"

Tulio shrugs. "I just have an eye for it. You pick up a thing or two when you've been around the fashion block a couple thousand times or so."

She thanks him with a kiss on the cheek too, because he's as much her god as Miguel is.

Ready as a warrior armed for battle, Chel leaves the gods to their celebration, and strides off with them still staring hungrily after her. There will be time enough for that later, once she heads off the impending disaster on the horizon.

* * *

The steps ascending to the Jaguar God's temple are meticulously clean. Chel still shudders as her bare feet touch them. On the Dark Days at the end of the count of years blood flows like waterfalls down these stairs. Here is where three maiden aunts had died, sacrificed before she had ever been born to meet them.

The guards at the temple base converge upon them. Chel doesn't stop climbing until she imperiously stands above them. Those that immediately recognize the clothing of her rank immediately bow their heads and spears in submission. A few that recognize her as a former acolyte, one bound for sacrifice, gawk before they remember their place and submit even deeper.

"Good evening," she says pleasantly, with Tulio's same levity when he suggested plague as corrective measure. "I must speak to Tzekel-Kan, immediately."

She is escorted with the honor guard of acolytes and attendants befitting a head priestess, because as of this afternoon she is one. A few years ago her big brother was dragged up these very steps. Not for sacrifice, oh no, but for an execution befitting only one deemed guilty of attempting to reveal Manoa's golden refuge to the outside world. He had died in pieces and he had died screaming, right beneath where the Jaguar God's colossal jade idol now looms.

But, even in the jaguar's layer, Chel is not alone. The faces of her gods smile benevolently down from atop the serpent with Altivo's head. Their images are found in all temples, for it is they who are Lords of the Fifth World.

Tzekel-Kan, kneeling over that same altar where brother died screaming, is too consumed with his rituals to notice her until an acolyte gently rouses him.

"The head priestess of Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio, my lord," the poor boy murmurs to him.

Immediately the high priest rounds on her. He nearly snarls at her face, with only her priestly garb and proud stance forcing him into the thinnest layer of civility. "Ah, the... girl, from earlier. Chela, yes?"

"Chel," she corrects neutrally. "Sorry for dropping in so late. I'm afraid I haven't had the time for it today, what with guiding the gods to our city and ensuring their feast in proper accordance with them."

Tzekel-Kan's shoulders spasm before he dips his head into what can barely be called a nod. High priest he might be, but he's still attached to the Jaguar God's cult, and even he must defer to the head priests of the other divinities when a specific sacrifice or celebration is in question. "Of course. Rest assured, _Chel,_ the reverent sacrifice has been thoroughly planned and preparations are well underway-"

"No, Tzekal-Kan, they're not." Chel marches close as she can, until it is he who must step back from intruding into _her_ personal space. "Because I wasn't consulted. If I'm not happy, then how can Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio be happy?"

"Well, as speaker for the gods, it would be my _privilege_ to walk you through the rites."

 _"A_ speaker," Chel breaks in. "Not _the_ speaker. My gods, my sacrifice." She smiles sweetly, as if playing along with his jest. "Unless something happened to a thousand years of precedent when I wasn't looking?"

Up until today, the Jaguar God's cult had been the preeminent of cults, what with Tzekel-Kan being so insistently charismatic and the Dual Gods lacking a unified hierarchy of attendants. That does not stop the high priests and priestesses of Grandmother Turtle, the Sun God, the Rain God, the Volcano Goddess, and a dozen other powerful cults from having very strong opinions about Tzekel-Kan's... _unique_ interpretation of ancient doctrine. Because, if he starts stealing from one cult that's not his, what stops him there?

She watches Tzekel-Kan calculate those same odds in his furious, bulging eyes. Finally, Chel watches him swallow his own pride like poison. Her gods are the ones physically present, lapping up the people's praise and adoration. Him, against her, and all the other great religious authorities?

Even he can see it's not gonna be good.

"Of course," he grits out at last. "How might... I have the... _privilege,_ in assisting the gods?"

Chel smiles and gives her orders.

* * *

 By dawn Manoa has roused itself from its drunken hangover, its citizens are dressed their best and await the reverential ceremony with alarmed alertness. Because by now everyone's heard that _Tzekel-Kan_ volunteered the honor. They expect to hold back horrified gasps from at least one gruesome human sacrifice before Xibalba's waters, at minimum. Tzekel-Kan is always so fond of calling the Jaguar God displeased by the thin stomachs of the unworthy and believes the only way to appease such blasphemy to be yet another human life.

However, as the city's warriors and acolytes instead direct the disbelieving crowds to the city center, different rumors spread. Mostly about the mercy of these strange new gods, in choosing Chel as their speaker instead, and what she might have planned for them instead. Especially when a few other souls reveal exactly _what_ walked out of the jungle last night, to so willingly lie at the temple steps as tribute.

Some terrified eyes flick to Chief Tannabok or else to an ominously neutral Tzekel-Kan. However, it is the high priestess, resplendent in red and gold, that strides forth between them to capture their attention.

"People of Manoa!" she cries. "A thousand years we have waited for our Golden Gods to smile upon us once more. We have remembered their creation of the Fifth World and our deliverance from the endless bloodshed of the Crocodile God, where human blood spilled like rain. We have passed their stories down to our children, so that they too might know them, and in turn tell our grandchildren. Our faith has been rewarded, for the gods have awakened to walk upon us!"

Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio emerge from their temple to the applause of their people, and the morning grows all the brighter with their presence.

"Every day, we pray before the altars of our gods. Our incense brightens their halls, our food and libations their tables. Even keeping them in our thoughts show our gods they are known and appreciated. This is customary, as has been for a thousand years, since the Crocodile God and his endless greed for our lives was cast down. Ordinarily, this is enough." Chel grins at her gods. "But today is not _mundane,_ is it? How can it be, when Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio honor us in the flesh?"

The crowd roars their approval, and gods and priestess alike bask in it.

"Last night we showed our gratitude through our delight and joy, but what is in our hearts alone is not enough."

With a smile, Chief Tannabok calls for Manoa to send forth their tribute. The crowd parts like water for a parade of golden tribute, each carried up the steps for inspection and acceptance into the temple.

And the gods show their joy. Not only in their smiles, but in every glint of new gold shining in the ears of their people, no matter what was there before. Every elder has a new shawl to ward away the morning crispness, every man and woman and child new clothing in the radiant shades of dawn. Coughs and fevers and terminal ailments evaporate like bad dreams, when every soul in the city stranded in their sickbeds rising to greet the dawning of a new era.

As the procession of tribute winds down, Tzekel-Kan strides forward. The cheers in the crowd die, and he swells up with their fearful silence. Yet, beneath the fathomless gazes of the gods, te high priest gives Chel only one short, meaningful glance.

"Yet, even gold can only substitute so much, when we truly demand something great of divinity. The beginning of a new age, the dawning of a new era... demands... _sacrifice!"_

Behind the gold, the tributes come, and come willingly. The crowd gasps in awe at their unclouded eyes, their golden crowns, their graceful prancing. Even the hunters among them have never before seen stags of such size and glory. Last night they walked out of the jungle and stood, docile as fawns, as acolytes painted their hooves and antlers gold with shaking hands. Beneath Lord Miguel's approving gaze, they ascend the steps to kneel before Tzekel-Kan. So great is his wonder that even some of his bitterness lifts, if only for a moment.

In two deft slashes, Tzekel-Kan's obsidian knife opens their throats, and the golden stags bleed red as the dawn.

Then, there is feasting. And singing and dancing and just plain partying.

These gods sure like they're partying.

* * *

 The celebrations of the gods' arrival are just winding down some days later when smoke is spotted by keen-eyed sentinels on the horizon. Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio roll their eyes, and most ominously of all Lord Altivo snorts and paws the ground to crush a rock beneath his hooves. For a morning they are gone and darkness claims the horizon. With grim satisfaction, their priestess assures the source of the smoke is not a problem, and will never be a problem again.

And then the festivities begin anew, the gods soar so high in their victory they carry all the city along with them.

Then, Manoa knows peace. No matter the storms on the horizon or the souls from the outside seeking sanctuary, the evils that prowl outside the valley walls never follow them in. Not while the gods are here.

With War and Conquest confined to the outside world, the Jaguar God is remembered scarcely, and regarded even scarcer, beyond the odd time some animal blood must be shed before his altar on the appropriate days of the calendar. His high priest, so thoroughly eclipsed by the physical suns that walk among the city, says nothing in protest. Even he knows his place before the fathomless gazes of the gods, and how he shall be scorched with barely an afterthought if he dares speak against the order of this new world.

So dies Tzekel-Kan, years later, old and gray and bitter. He is a priest still, if not a true _high_ priest anymore. His god has faded to simply become another minor face in the pantheon, relocated to a smaller home, the Jaguar God's old grand temple rededicated to a greater power.

The same cannot be said of Lady Chel, who grows only more splendid by the year. Her hair never grays and her face never knows age. She never needs to say a word, for her people to recognize her agelessness for what it truly is. Of course she is a goddess. What else could be she be, for Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio to love her so fully, beyond what a god should ever feel for a mere mortal, even their speaker?

Eventually Lady Chel 'retires,' passing down her position as high priestess to a canny granddaughter of old, dearly missed Chief Tannabok.

The gods can speak for themselves, of course, but even those that walk among mortals appreciate a break from all the fuss once in a while. That's why they trust their priests and priestesses after all, to speak in their stead when they have to be concerned with the matters of the wider world.

Or simply just can't be damned to answer _every single question_ a city of thousands poses _every single day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I CAN write a one-shot where Tzekel-Kan survives without being hideously transfigured into something else :p
> 
> For some of the greatest gods in the Greco-Roman pantheon, Hermes started off as a... literal pile of rocks someone attached faces (and penises) too. So there you. Apollo's beginnings were in springs with supposed healing properties... and in caverns that made the first oracles say some very whacky things.
> 
> Of course, the strangest godly origin goes to Glycon, a son of Asclepius... who probably started off as a literal snake puppet, before his healing and fertility cult REALLY took off in some parts of the Roman Empire.


	8. the blood issue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I should probably consult with Lord Miguel. This is fairly important stuff. I should discuss the entire, uh, blood issue right away."
> 
> Tulio and Miguel can afford to be greedy, just this one time. As long the sacrifice was literally anything but human.
> 
> What could one last little sacrifice in their names hurt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another light-hearted one. Unless you're a deer.

"Do you wish to have your victims bound to an altar, or would you prefer them free-range?"

_...What?_

"And will you be devouring their essence whole or..." Tzekel-Kan licks his lips eagerly, as if _he's_ the one about to be feasting. "Or piece by piece?"

Tulio sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Again with the sacrifice thing, Tzekel?"

The high priest frowns. "My lord, these people will not respect you if they do not fear you."

Tulio knows that better than this guy ever could. He lived and breathed that reverence, until the fear in him grew to the point it toppled him from his nice, marble pedestal altogether. And, even then, his worshipers had still had _standards,_ thank you very much. "I take it all the sacrifices you have in mind are of the _human_ persuasion."

Tzekel-Kan blinks, honestly taken aback. "Of course, my lord. You and Lord Miguel have chosen to return to us in physical form. How can we, as your faithful followers, not offer you the highest gift there is to offer?"

That's sweet. In its own creepy, creepy way. Tulio thinks long and hard. Best to put this in terms the psycho priest can understand. "The horse- Er, Lord Altivo carried us into the city, Tzekel-Kan. He's just as much a god as we are." Hah! All too true. "Is this human sacrifice meant for him too?"

"Ah, no." The high priest hesitates, obviously searching for the least offensive answer possible. "Lord Altivo is... not of the shape to ask him directly. Regardless of what he has chosen to appear to us as, he is..."

"Obviously not a carnivore?" Tulio finishes archly.

Tzekel-Kan nods in relief. "Yes, my lord. Thank you."

"With no appetite for meat whatsoever?" he presses.

The priest's lips thin as understanding dawns. "...Quite, my lord. Not in the form he currently favors."

Tulio flicks a hand to his own, obviously human form. "Lord Miguel and I have done you the great personal favor of choosing forms on your level, of communicating with you in a way no other form is capable of. Because Manoa is really that deserving of our presence. And you think the best way to show your gratitude is to offer us up our own followers to eat?"

Tzekel-Kan swallows thickly. "I-I'm sorry if I caused offense, my lord. Please let me know what tribute is great enough to prove myself worthy of your pardon."

Tulio has half a mind to demand double the gold Chief Tannabok has already offered them. One can never have enough gold. And yet, he and Miguel will have enough gold to live like kings for decades back in Spain. Even if Chel takes a third of the loot and the horse somehow demands a share too.

It has been a very, very long time since someone spilled lamb's blood in his name.

"Do you have lambs?" he tries with faint hope, which promptly falls at the high priest's blank stare. "Rams, ewes? Sheep of any sort?"

"Um-"

"Goats?" Tulio presses, because no way is he asking for _kids_ from this creep. "Cows, pigs? Hell, even _chickens_?"

With each the high priest grows all the more lost, where Tulio groans and pinches his nose to hold back his throbbing headache. And his rumbling stomach. "Great. Now I'm _hungry_ and this backwater doesn't have _anything_ worthwhile. How am I supposed to be sacred protector of the sacrificial flocks if there's nothing to-"

"Flocks?" Tzekel-Kan blurts out, before paling at the even graver offense of interrupting a rant of godly proportions. "...We have birds, my lord."

Tulio wearily arches a brow at him. "What kind of birds?"

"Well... obviously we try to avoid harming non-waterfowl of any sort, my lord. No one wants to injure a heavenly messenger, but if you called for it... we could... make exceptions."

Light enough to fly means little enough to eat. "Anything bigger?" he tries. "Anything at all?"

Tzekel-Kan lists. And lists. Most mean nothing to Tulio. Because even as his mind interprets the Manoan sounds as _peccary_ or _capybara,_ he still has no meaningful equivalents to attach them to. But, even an ocean away from all he knows, some beasts are still recognizable. And make his mouth water with a hunger that has eaten away at the core of his being for over a millennium.

Tulio almost blurts out his choice before he stops himself. He's not the only one starving.

"I should probably consult with Lord Miguel," he concedes. "This is fairly important stuff. Can't go spilling the wrong blood on the first try. Excuse us, won't you?"

Waving Chel down the temple steps and away from the devoted but utterly insane priest, Tulio does not hurry out of fear.

"Nice thinking, partner," Chel whispers into his ear. "Diverting his attention like that."

"Hm? Oh, yeah."

"Tulio." When out of Tzekel-Kan's line of sight, Chel pulls him aside. "You're shaking."

"Huh?" He jerks back to himself, frowning as he tries to still the sudden tremor in his hands. "Am I?"

"It's okay to be afraid of Tzekel-Kan," Chel murmurs, as she reaches for his hand. "It's nuts, conning him like this. A healthy bit of fear keeps us alive long enough to get our gold and get out of here."

He sighs. "It's not that, Chel. Honest."

He and Miguel have made due since their worship became outright illegal back home. They resorted to eating solid food when gods should have sustained themselves on the smoke and savor of their burnt sacrifices alone. They've survived on stolen attention and cheated gold, but those are poor substitutes for _blood,_ willingly given. A thousand years later, he is still very much an addict in withdrawal. He's no less a creature born of the heart then when lamb's blood was first spilled upon his rough stone altars.

"Then what-"

"Can it wait?" he breaks in, unable to entirely hide the naked _want_ in his voice. "Please, Chel?"

Despite her suspicious stare, she grudgingly nods. "Sure. As long as you don't get us killed first."

They discover Miguel playing some stupid little ballgame with a bunch of children and, somehow, Chief Tannabok. A part of Tulio shudders that it is a very, very bad idea to let Miguel grow comfortable in any place that's not Spain. What if he wants to stay here, to be sucked into another pantheon and away from Tulio? But the majority of Tulio has the higher priority of _sacrifice_ in mind, and so promptly tells that jealous little whisper to shut up.

Miguel, caught up in his game, bumps right into him. Thinking himself in trouble, he quails a bit before his bravado can muster itself. "T-Tulio, I-"

"Forget it, Miguel. We've got bigger fish to fry." Not that he particularly _wants_ fish. Who do they think he is, some sort of sea god? Bleck!

"Like what?"

"Like sacrifice." His partner immediately recoils in horror. Rolling his eyes, Tulio conspiratorially sweeps him under his arm. "Not another human sacrifice, Miguel. A _proper_ sacrifice, with animals. A real, honest to gods-honest to _us_ \- _sacrifice."_

"Oh?" Miguel scrunches up in confusion, before the old hunger awakes himself and he slouches weakly in Tulio's grip. _"Oh._ What exactly do they have in mind?"

"Whatever we want!" Tulio grins, and does not add that's because Tzekel-Kan is desperately trying to atone for yet another attempt at offering them a human life instead.

Green eyes light up with tentative hope. "Do they have-"

"No," he says flatly.

"B-But you didn't even let me finish!"

"Because, believe me it was the first thing I asked for, and they don't have domesticated livestock like that here. Or their wild counterparts." Before Miguel can deflate from disappointment, Tulio hastily offers to list him off their options that they actually know about.

He leaves monkeys off the menu, because they're way too close to human for comfort, and small things like mice and rats aren't worth their time. There are prickly porcupines, some foxes and dogs, otters, a type of bear, some types of deer-

"Yes," Miguel agrees immediately. "The biggest type they have."

Tulio squints at him. "Are you trying to make a point?"

His partner does not even bother to hide his smirk. "Perhaps."

Because, once upon a time, Miguel's twin sister had decided it was a swell idea to demand a Greek king offer up his own daughter from sacrifice when she had pissed him off. And that had then pointedly switched in a doe at the last possible heartbeat before the idiots could actually break one of the core tenements of a religion that had long held human sacrifice as a no-no.

...Miguel's twin had always been a bit of a bitch, even by their family's lax standards.

But Tulio just rolls his eyes and goes with it. Deer had been a rare sacrifice for him, but at least it's familiar. He's certainly poached a lot more from all the kings and caliphs that came after his time anyway, and enjoyed some quality venison rather than just throw everything into a fire.

Their minds made up, they glance hesitantly toward Chel, then a bewildered Chief Tannabok, and finally to Tzekel-Kan creeping at the edge of things. Sure, one is speaker for the gods, but Chel's now technically their priestess and Tannabok is the head of it all.

"We have decided!" Miguel announces grandly, to anyone and everyone listening. "And we, the gods, have decided on..."

He trails off and Tulio shivers as _something_ tingles down his spine. Unconsciously he and Miguel turn toward the clearing, and all the crowd with them. His jaw drops, and the people gasp in awe, at what proudly prances out of the undergrowth.

"Deer," he blurts out

Stags. Two huge, freaking stags. They shake their antlered heads, cloven hooves striking the dirt. At the sight Miguel's little playmates gasp and go running for Chief Tannabok's side. The sudden movement startles the beasts. They snort, rolling their eyes and tossing their heads, but do not flee as deer should. A power grounds them here.

Incredulously, Tulio and Miguel glance at each other. Are _they_ the ones....

Miguel sucks in a nervous, giddy breath and holds out a hand that once called crows to perch, and lions to settle at his side. His quarry had been the beast of the woods, and his sister mistress of animals. One stag, eyes only for him, moves through the awestruck crowd. It bows its head and lies down like a trained dog at his feet.

Tulio hesitates at the stag still shivering at the edge of the jungle, a heartbeat away from bolting. Domesticated animals were more his thing. The _predators that ate those flocks_ had been his things. Wild herbivores? Not so much. Yet, another part, old and deep, reminds him he too was once lord of the wild places and all who dwelt there. And all of him is hungry.

So he holds out his hand and concentrates. Beyond himself, beyond the mortal eye, extends a will that has once bent the flocks and the wolves to its thrall. The stag's sides stop heaving as he lulls it into calm and through the crowd. When he beckons it to bow before him, it does so.

With a triumphant grin, he catches Chel's eyes, which are ever so slightly bulging out of her skull.

"The gods have chosen!" she calls, loud and clear, as she whirls upon the crowd and stops gawking at them.

So they have.

* * *

The afternoon passes in a blur, because somehow the sacrificial altars are there waiting by Tzekel-Kan and the gods are near slavering when he brings the knife down on the first stag that lies, meek but undrugged, for his knife. While the gods guzzle their blood and tear into roasted hindquarters, there is somehow enough meat left over to feed a dozen souls, a hundred, and then the whole city.

Then that bothersome Chel decrees the miracle needs a proper celebration. The wine and the feast flows endless as the waters. The dancers and drummers start up with new fire in their hearts, no matter how long the night before or early their wake-up this morning. The chaos converges around Chel, who commands it as any high priestess should. Tzekel-Kan does not know where she finds the time to change into garb and earrings befitting one of her new station, but he never has a moment to seize control for himself.

Grudgingly, he concedes her an adequate speaker. If only he had not been so blind the morning before! Perhaps the gods would have not have chastised him by elevating a girl of such lowly status to their lofty side.

Anxiously he sidles over to the gods in question. They lounge in the golden thrones brought out from their temple, basking in the glow of the crowd, more comfortable than Tzekel-Kan has seen them yet. They have switched out the odd clothing of their arrival for the garb of the city and cradle goblets of stag's blood. They're content to nurse it now, rather than guzzle it like men dying of thirst. Even with sunset, Lord Miguel is radiant with a light of his own, while Lord Tulio is strong with the subtle shades of the evening.

"My lords," Tzekel-Kan begins, bowing deep as he can. "Have I begun to make up for the... egregious slight I paid in my fervor earlier?"

"I'll say," sighs Lord Tulio, stretching out in contentment. "You did, good Tzekel. For your part." He smiles after Chel. "Give credit where credit is due."

Lord Miguel grins at his fellow god. "And you wanted us to lie low!"

"Yeah, yeah, Miguel. I get it. Giving these people a little faith in return was well worth it." For a moment, his eyes rest on Tzekel-Kan. "So long as they bother _asking_ us what we want first."

"Of course, my lords," Tzekel-Kan agrees. "Forever and always." He tamps down on asking the gods more. He has been far so presumptuous today as he is, though he dearly hopes they shall get the hint.

"Forever, huh?" Lord Tulio muses, swirling his cup and considering the crowds celebrating in his honor.

"Should I ask Chief Tanni to delay building the ship then?" Lord Miguel presses smugly. "By, oh, a thousand years? To make up for the last millennium of a dry spell, at the very least?"

Lord Tulio fondly rolls his eyes while Tzekel-Kan bites back his indignity on his gods' behalf. He must start up a new round of rites, immediately, to correct a missing millennium of reverence. After consulting the gods themselves for the proper tribute and rituals, of course. But the high priest is not too caught up in his thoughts to notice the inscrutable look Lord Tulio gives Chel.

"What about-"

"Oh, Tulio, don't worry about it." Lord Miguel smiles with a knowing certainty that terrifies Tzekel-Kan. "Extending our stay by a thousand years or so won't be a daunting to _any_ of us."

Priest and god watch, bewildered, as Lord Miguel casually rises from his throne and strolls down into the merriment. He laughs and jokes with Chel, who has had quite the crowd congregate around her. Before the eyes of Manoa Lord Miguel passes her his goblet. Thirsty from a long night of giving orders and granting graces, Chel downs a sacrifice intended for gods alone. And smiles in appreciation, because to those like her salty stag's blood is rich as wine.

"Oh," Tzekel-Kan. _"Oh."_ Suddenly the heated glances that have passed between the gods and... Lady Chel take on new context. There _had_ been desire there. Yet the gods would only show favors to those of their own. "I-I shall begin preparations immediately, my lord. She needs a throne, an altar, a-"

"Uh huh," Lord Tulio breaks in absently, his goofy grin only for his fellow gods. "You do that, Tzekel."

Then he, too, abandons the high priest for his consorts. Tzekel-Kan hastily averts his eyes, for his certainly not worthy to gaze upon such private tenderness. Even if the gods test the propriety of their people by flaunting it so openly.

Alone in the crowd, Tzekel-Kan allows the strange turns of the day to flood over him. After the tumult of emotions cycles from bewilderment to anger to indignity, he settles on satisfaction. He has redeemed himself in Lord Tulio's eyes and Lord Miguel has already embraced the people. Most fortunately of all, Lady Chel has turned out to _not_ be competition for rule as speaker of the gods, but rather a goddess he must press the city to honor. The gods are here to stay. Once more, all is right with the...

Breath, hot and humid, puffs down on his neck.

Slowly, Tzekel-Kan turns, to where ancient eyes stare balefully down upon them. An ill, ominous wind as the divine herald tosses his head. He stamps the earth with his hoof, cracking the stone beneath.

To his horror, the high priest realizes he has forgotten the fourth god in their midst. "Lord Altivo," he squeaks out in horror. "My lord, I-"

The god snorts and Tzekel-Kan hastily falls into full prostration. Perhaps groveling shall save him this time.

* * *

And that is why, during the festivities to commemorate the arrival of the Golden Gods, everyone wakes up on the third morning with pounding hangovers from hard apple cider, and not wine or beer or pulque.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most commonly Hermes/Mercury was offered up rams and pigs, and Apollo sheep and cattle. Other animals were less commonly offered, and had loose connections to the wilderness. Hermes and the wild god Pan were almost certainly one god in their earliest days, and Apollo was the archery god and Diana's sister. Greco-Roman gods traditionally only 'consumed' the fat and bones burned on their sacrificial altars, but Tulio and Miguel ain't playing by those rules no more.
> 
> Greek and Roman cultures did not common human sacrifice in the Classical period and were both quick to call out any culture that did (or was rumored to do so) as barbaric. That does not stop Diana from demanding Agamemnon sacrifice his own damn daughter to her when he pisses her off, in order to have winds to sail to Troy and collect Helen's ass. In some versions of the myth Diana lets the knife go down, but swaps out the girl for a doe at the last minute. In other versions she's more of a bitch and lets it go through, but let's believe in nice(r) Diana here.


	9. the horse is a surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wise guy and a horse. Only it's not the horse you're thinking of. Here's a hint - he wasn't always a horse.
> 
> Or: what happens when Tulio and Miguel are still ex-gods, only this time around now they're getting by as a groomsman and the pride of Cortes' stables. Before getting washed overboard and spat up on an unknown shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse... leads me to very weird places sometimes. Like I literally remembered last night palomino horses were a thing and here we are, with the crackiest addition yet to this 'verse.

Cortes (no, not _that_ Cortes) cuts an imposing figure all on his own. The broad chest, chiseled chin, and granite stare make him like Spain's power incarnate. Yet, even as he enthralls the people with promises of gold and glory in God's name, their eyes are improbably drawn to the horse that lifts them above their level.

He is the finest stallion any in the crowd have ever seen, the epitome of Andalusians, with the power of the Old Iberian horses and the swiftness of the steeds brought by the Saracens. He is a true palomino, with a coat that shines gold as the sun and a mane and tail only slightly paler. His neck is elegantly arched and tail proudly held even if most of the crowd agree the horse looks bored as hell. Cortes' mount should look inspired or just with the neutral, empty expression one expects from a horse.

"Today we sail to conquer the New World... for Spain, for glory, for gold!"

"Viva Cortes!" the crowd shouts. Beneath their roar, one inconspicuous man at the back just mouths the words. He catches the stallion's brilliant green eyes and rolls his own.

The horse can't help but snort a laugh so violent his whole head jerks, and so startles in surprise when the gunshots are unleashed, because _of course_ they are. Naturally he panics with the same instincts that kept horse herds alive for untold centuries.

And winces as his master jerks his bit. "Miguel!" he snaps. "Eyes forward!"

None can quite remember how the palomino gained the name. Cortes' men agree it's a good name, a holy name, and only fitting a stallion named for the heavenly archangel shall carry conquest and Catholicism into the New World. It certainly fits Cortes' pride perfectly, to ride a mount named for the Lord's greatest warrior angel.

Drenched in water, Miguel snaps to attention. And shamefully avoids the furious face in the crowd, the hands in clench at the fury the other cannot express without receiving whip and spur as punishment.

Once Cortes rides up the gangplank onto his grand flagship, he promptly dismounts. "Groomsman!" he barks, but the groomsman is already there to take the reins thrust into his hands. Sure, perhaps he wears his hair a bit too long and is infamous with the staff wherever they wind up posted, but he always acts the perfect servant. And no one out there has his touch for animals, especially Cortes' spirited stallion.

Tulio does not lead Miguel down into the ship's stables, dark and cramped. The pride of Cortes is allowed the freedom of the deck, even a sheltered stall when the nights are too cold and rains too harsh. He does not lead Miguel at all, not that anyone bothers to look. The reins are slack in his grip, as horse and servant walk side by side.

In their quiet corner of the world Tulio untacks his charge with unmatched speed. No other groomsman has his speed or his deft fingers. First goes the bridle and its iron bit, gratefully spat out by Miguel. When the saddle is gone too, Tulio reaches for a rag and gently wipes the last bits of wetness from his face. His hand lingers on the horse's chin, the darker, scruffy bit of gold that always seems to grow back overnight whenever Cortes demands it trimmed.

"Same shit, different day, huh?" Tulio mutters.

Miguel heaves a sigh of agreement. Then he jerks his head purposefully, swishing what tail he can when the whole thing is so tightly bound.

"Yeah, yeah," Tulio chuckles. "I'm on it, Miguel."

Because he is the one that still has fingers, he undoes the tight braids all down the stallion's mane and tail, because Cortes is a control freak but also too vain to see either cut. Miguel sighs in relief as the tights bits of pressure squeezing his skin come undone. When the last bit of hair is freed he shakes himself, restoring his mane and tail as best he can to full, silky perfection.

While their ship pulls away from the last home the home they have known for nigh over two thousand years, the pair remain lost in their own little world. Tulio gently combs Miguel's mane because the vain bastard basks in the attention and his touch.

"Reckon we'll have better luck in the New World than we did in the Old?" Miguel snorts derisively. "Yeah, I don't either. At least we're not the ones on the receiving end this time, huh?"

Tulio feels no shame whatsoever in conversing with Miguel. It's a groomsman job to keep horses calm, even on heaving ships and beside raging battlefields, and even the shakiest stallion calms at his voice. But, most importantly of all, Tulio isn't quite a groomsman and Miguel isn't quite just a horse. Even now, they cling to what shreds of pride they have left.

It had been different, once upon a time, when they had been... They'd fought and fought in those last days, stormed apart when they should have held the other and never have let go.

By the time Tulio had felt his partner fading away forever, he'd nearly been too late. Part of him bitterly insisted he _had_ been too late to save Miguel, had only salvaged his bare essence and not his whole, shining self. But, no matter his form, Miguel is still here. He runs like the wind and kicks with a strength that sometimes leaves Tulio breathless with envy. Until he remembers having, you know, opposable thumbs and a chance to speak for himself.

In another life they might have freely leeched off the world that replaced theirs, lying and thieving with abandon. They've adapted to their lot in life, reinvented themselves as best they can. So what if Miguel had once driven a chariot of fiery horses across the sky? He's still of the herds and herdsmen, in his own way, and tramples armies beneath his hooves so that that new towns might still be founded and the civil institutions he delighted in upheld.

Tulio's made himself fit in as best he can, for his sake and Miguel's. He had been a patron of the herds and livestock, the heralds and travelers. Being a groomsman to the embodiment of horses is an extension of all that. Sorta.

Miguel snorts in dark agreement, because they can still talk to each other even if a horse just doesn't have the same capacity for verbal ripostes.

"Yeah," Tulio mumbles. "We've served kings and caliphs, right? How are conquistadors so different?"

Aside from being utter assholes to their their animals and servants, that is. Even more so than the average royal tyrant. And Tulio's worked for _a lot_ of those, starting with his own gods damned dad.

* * *

Even at sea with only his own zealous crew to impress, Cortes still insists on his dumb versions of propriety. Tulio, of course, compromises where he can because not even Cortes is that bored enough to stare at his horse. That is how Miguel wanders the deck during the day, with only _loose_ braids and a halter with no bridle at all in his mouth.

He charms the crew, for all the pets and laughs he can. A horse stranded on sea has to get his kicks in somehow. And some men are so devoted to him they even sneak him extra snacks, his master's orders be damned.

But only some.

"Hey Miguel!" Pablo chides, whirling around before his jaws can snap close around their red, juicy prize. "Not for you! You're on half-rations. Orders from Cortes."

_Then why did you walk right up to be with a whole basket of apples, you teasing f-_

All of his indignity escapes as only a withering snort, because horses can only be so eloquent with their exasperation.

Fortunately, he has Tulio, who briefly distracts Pablo with idle conversation about the weather. The man never notices the apple flung on his basket. In two crisp bites, it's gone.

No wonder Cortes is so paranoid about him gaining weight. It's not as if this deck even gives much space for a proper trot, let alone for him to truly cut loose.

But not even Miguel is vain enough to starve himself, when _apples_ are on the line. It's the best luxury he can get out here, when Cortes watches the beer barrels like a hawk.

* * *

 Tulio is fast asleep, burrowed into hay and horsey warmth, when his heat source snorts and shifts to stand.

"Oh, _come on,_ Miguel. It's the middle of the night, and..."

Tulio trails off as the golden stallion only ventures further from his side. Human senses are shit. It's Miguel's instincts that have them alive this long. So, even though the winds are currently calm and stars twinkle through fluffy black clouds, he shivers when Miguel ominously stares from where a storm is blowing in.

The crew is mighty pissed to be woken up by the crazy horseman in the middle of the night, ranting about the sudden shift in the wind and the horses' sudden restlessness. And then the crazy horseman is vindicated when a dark pall sweeps over the skies, bringing stinging rains down with it. The sailors quickly start battening hatches and securing the sails, even before Cortes is roused and begins barking out orders.

Screaming winds and heaving waves are quick to follow. Tulio knows shit about boats, but he knows when to tie ropes and move when an order is roared above the roaring seas. Even Miguel is helping. Untied, he keeps out the way, but still lunges forward to snatch the shirts of men in his teeth before they can be blown overboard or kick a stubborn door closed. So panicked are the men none question how a horse is so sea-savvy.

The captain is quick to notice how nimble and quick-fingered Tulio is. He's one of the went sent scuttling up into the high sails to retie them when a stubborn wind rips them loose. Despite clinging for his life, he up so high and the face of what was once his father's fury, he finds himself laughing as the wind and rains whip at his hair. Good gods, he almost feels like _himself_ again.

Then the ship bucks with the roughest wave yet. The men, tie down, grit their teeth and roll with it. A stallion's hooves on rain-slicked wood cannot. Miguel screams, high and shrill, when he's pitched overboard. Tulio screams with him.

"Boy!" roars the grizzled old sailor next to him. "It's a fucking _horse._ Don't you dare-"

Tulio can't fly, not anymore. So he grabs a rope and slides down to the deck. He nearly vaults himself over the side too, before he hysterically realizes the galley is much too tall to climb back aboard. Cortes is not risking his ship for a horse or his groomsman, not in these waters.

When the nearby sailors see him go for the ropes of the long boat, they lunge for him. But known were once the god of wrestlers, or know a fraction of his dirty tricks. With teeth bared, his tears his way through them. Once the boat is dangling over open waters he hurls his knife and prays. He's never had much like or Miguel's eye, but tonight the first rope snaps and the second one promptly gives out beneath the weight.

Miguel, shrieking and thrashing, is still above the surface. In his blind, animal panic he cannot hear Tulio screaming his name and nearly kicks him dead in his futile struggles against the sea itself.

Tulio dives beneath hysterical hooves. He erupts on the other side, slithering atop the stallion's back and seizing his mane with both hands.

 _"Alexikakos!"_ he roars, not in Latin or Castilian, but in the very first common tongue they've shared. _"My averter of evil, listen to me!"_

Miguel returns to himself. With renewed purpose he struggles through the waters, to let the long boat slam against them. Tulio snatches a rope from inside, looping it beneath his partner's belly. When the swell turns their way, he grits his teeth and _pulls._

And the same waves that sent them to their deaths now help hurl man and horse into their scrap of salvation. So does the storm sweep them away from Cortes and his ships, all hope of rescue and certain execution for Tulio. Gasping for breath, he somehow manages a giddy laugh, and waves after them as they bob out of sight.

Behind him, Miguel snorts. Without turning to see his look of extreme disappointment, Tulio crosses his arms and hunkers down by his side. "Look on the positive side, Miguel. At least we're in a rowboat. With supplies!" Because Cortes' paranoia, and his readiness for any situation, has finally paid off.

With only the two of them, maybe they ration their goods far enough to wash up on a desert island somewhere.

If not? Well, at least none of them is dying without the other. Never again.

But, hey, they still have a chance. Even if a snowball in hell has higher odds. Since he's the one with hands, Tulio deepens on large rough cloth into an impromptu trough, to catch fresh water while it's falling free from the sky. The other he drapes over himself and Miguel, to provide what protection he can from the elements.

Hey, at least he has a free heat source.

* * *

They keep high spirits for the first few days, while they still have plenty of supplies and welcome the sun for warming their weary bones and evaporating the lingering damp. Only later does the heat become overbearing, even for Miguel. Still, he tries to keep things positive. He reacts to Tulio's questions and rants as emphatically as he can, to make their conversations as far from one-sided as possible. He tries his best miming games, though the equine body only allows for so much flexibility. He even tries his best at singing, and they both roar with laugh. Or whinny. It's the principal of it.

Miguel's hopes only give out the day the seagull lands out on their oar and promptly drops dead, exhausted and so far from shore. He swears even he weeps when the dead-eyed shark erupts from the depths to snap it up one bite, for that fate is his own. Is Tulio's.

It's been a long time since Miguel has allowed himself to long for what is beyond his reach. However, now more than ever, than when he was even first trapped, he finds himself yearning. He wants more than life itself to hold Tulio's hand, to be the one to comb his fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings into his ear. He wants to weep with him, shed twin tears of love and loss.

Tulio, who even now refuses to steep into such bitterness, only sprawls out at his side, dazedly blurting out everything that comes to mind, "We never had time enough for just _ourselves,_ Miguel. You always had to carry this asshole there and I had to serve him here. We carried and kissed asses so long, we never did that for _each other."_ He chuckles deliriously. "I always saw us cut down in a blaze of battle, you know. Or maybe even just fading away when something comes along and replaces horses and groomsmen like gunpowder did archery. The boat is a surprise. But at least we have it all to ourselves."

_Tulio, you made my life an adventure. My biggest regret, besides letting you run away like that, was never telling you enough how much I loved you. I should have done it every day. Every dawn. Every dusk. Every moment of every single day for the last twenty five hundred years._

Miguel tries and fails at the words, too weak to even manage a proper huff in this horse body.

Tulio's head lolls against his neck. "If it's any consolation, Miguel, you made my life an adventure... rich beyond compare."

Miguel wants to weep, but cannot. He settles for staring bitterly overboard, when Tulio dips his hand overboard for a bit of coolness, and comes up with only golden sand between his fingers.

They glance from the sand to each other, before gaping at the beach beneath their boat and the lush green jungle ahead. As one they spring from what was once their certain tomb and shower the ground with reverential kisses.

Until Miguel accidentally slavers a weathered human skull. He rears back with a frightened whinny while Tulio squeals in horror.

"All in favor of going back to the boat, say 'nay!'"

The stallion impulsively neighs in agreement, galloping for the boat. Before he jumps in his hooves hesitate at the surf. He gazes back to the golden sword impaled through that skeleton and the eagle-carved rock, clear signs that this land is very much inhabitable.

"Miguel?" Tulio cries, adamantly paddling at thin air. "Hello? Could use a little help pushing this back out to sea."

Miguel stares out to sea, where they had very nearly evaporated into nothing, and snorts in incredulous belief. When his partner finally turns to look at him, he stubbornly stamps the beach with the hoof, and nods toward the uncharted undergrowth.

"You want to step foot in the jungle almost certainly filled with hostile natives?" A nod. "...You drank the seawater, didn't you?" With a furious whinny, the stallion charges further from the boat, closer to their second chance. "That's suicide, Miguel! I wouldn't step in that jungle for a million reales!"

Miguel gapes in disbelief, before he realizes that only two true options lie before him. And he knows which is suicide. With a whole beach as writing board, he draws his literal line in the sand, and makes his voice loud and clear.

_I SHALL NOT DIE. NOT HERE, NOT TODAY._

So rarely does he have the space to write freely. Now he does, when he must express himself the most.

Tulio slumps before at last rising from the boat. "Fine, fine. Let's get out of here before the natives get back."

Miguel prances eagerly, but waits until his partner grabs that handy golden sword and swings astride him before galloping off with new strength and new hope surging through his veins.

Not that he can gallop very far before running into trees, of course. Tulio leans forward to slice their way in. And sends way more than vines and branches flying. Miguel half-rears at the stunned snake that lands before his hooves, before he tramples it dead.

"Oh, yes," Tulio mutters under his breath. "Because _that's_ a such good omen."

He squeals when Miguel pointedly cranes his head around to sneeze at him. But then the stallion stops and stares, wide-eyed, and the little creature they've unwittingly rescued from venomous jaws.

The rusty red thing perched in the branches has a long snout like a shrew's but a squat, armored body like some sort of cross between a rat and turtle. Miguel stares and the little armored one stares right back, just as perplexed of them as they are of it. Its eyes are too intelligent to belong to a mere animal.

"A messenger?" Tulio asks warily. "All the way out here?"

Miguel snorts doubtfully. Maybe it is. Maybe it's a being like him, a god stripped to one of its primal essentials. Or, a thought almost too terrifying to consider, a true deity hiding in such a humble form. He earnestly hopes it's just a messenger for a higher power, a minor trickster spirit at the absolute worst.

Miguel tries for a happy greeting, but of course the words fail him. They are two very different beasts from two different cultures, after all. So he settles for a warm nicker hello. He bends his head down to the messenger's eye level. Its little paws rest a moment on his velvety muzzle, intrigued. Then it looks him dead in the eyes, nods, and scampers off a bit into the undergrowth. It stops, glancing back at them expectantly.

"Should we trust it?" Tulio mutters into his ear, for only him to hear.

Miguel bunches his shoulders in his best shrug, and trots forward. It's not as if he has any better ideas.

Maybe they're actual guests here, invited to an actual home for some well-deserved rest and respite. Maybe they're following a sadistic little demon to their deaths. Hey, sometimes blind faith is rewarded. Sometimes it isn't.

Their armored little guide is ambiguous. Sometimes it - _he-_ leads them to natural wonders like eagle-shaped canyons and dragon-shaped caves that exhale butterflies like fire. Other times he makes them pass through leech-infested waters and cross rivers filled with carnivorous little fish.

The journey is rough. Miguel's luxuriously long mane and tail get caught on everything, from briars to curious monkey paws. Rather than suffer through Tulio's poor attempts at braiding ties, he just makes his partner cut them both shorter. Not to the skin, of course, but more manageable lengths.

His hooves are a problem not so easily solved. While he does not grow old, his stupid nails still grow. Right into the horseshoes nailed into his hooves. Tulio frowns and files them down as best he can. It's not a perfect solution. But Miguel learns how to hide his discomfort and toughen out the worst of it. They're not finding a farrier in the middle of the jungle.

Miguel hopes. And prays to fates he still half-believes in that somehow, someway, everything will be alright.

Then, after leading them into a misty clearing, their guide evaporates into thin air. Miguel nickers after him, but he never returns.

After some bumbling around they nearly run into a massive stone stele. Miguel immediately fixates on the monstrously huge serpent. Tulio curses as they gaze past the stele to a waterfall and an obvious dead end.

"Motherf-" Tulio's hands wrench into his mane. "Let's get the hell out of here, Miguel! Before we become dinner!"

Centuries in warfare, and just sheer stubbornness, keep Miguel's hooves rooted in place. After a few moments of intense listening all he can hear is the shush of water. The area doesn't smell like giant snake, so he more closely inspects the statue. Belatedly he notices the kneeling woman offering tribute not only to the serpent, but the two human riders upon its back. Huh. The one in front bears a strikingly resemblance to-

His ears twitch at the telltale sounds of small, frantic human feet pounding over stone and splashing through water. Then he smells fear, and female, and overwhelming desperation. Beneath it all he hears her thundering her and the gasping of one who can't keep running for much longer. And she's heading straight their way.

Before Miguel can react she rounds the stele and slams straight into him. She falls onto her back, gaping up at him in fright. He half-rears while Tulio yelps and grabs for his mane, whinnying down at her in consternation.

"H-Hey, Miguel?" Tulio breaks in. "Maybe you should be _running_ now."

The stallion looks to the small group of warriors charging from the waterfall. Instinct kicks down when he glances at the woman, still prone and shocked on the ground. Not prey's instincts or even a warhorse's instincts, but the bone-deep pull to protect the herd at all costs.

Retreating behind the rock for maximum surprise, Miguel snaps pointedly at Tulio to stop tearing into his mane already, and plants himself between the woman and the warriors. When they round the corner he rears up to his fullest height and bugles a warhorse's battle cry. The men jerk back, but try circling to reach his soft underbelly. He spins to meet them, flailing hooves keeping them at bay.

When he falls onto all fours again, he's off to the woman's side rather than in front of her. She glances at him, to Tulio, to the fallen bundle beside her. When she flings it at them, Tulio instinctively catches. Wincing at its weight, he shifts it to one elbow, so that he might emphatically reach, but not draw, their one real weapon of note. He draws himself up to his full, commanding height, looking pretty damn impressive from the golden pride of Spain's stables as he stares the warriors down.

It's an act, of course. Even while part of Miguel urges him to charge forward he holds back, for inside Tulio's chest is heart is hammering and his breath comes in short, anxious pants. Does he remember how to use a sword? Or has it become unnecessary to a humble servant, as Miguel has forgotten the deft finger strokes to make lyres and lovers sing?

The head warrior, however, likes what he sees. He motions for his men to stand down, though jerking his spear into Tulio's face is clear order to follow. So, with those spear tips at his back, follow Miguel does. Behind him he hears a grunt of protest as two warriors roughly haul the woman to her feet. He snorts just ominously enough for them to loosen their grip on her.

Satisfied, Miguel spares the stele one last glance, and turns away. Huh. For a serpent the head shape sure reminds him of his own.

All three of them, including the thief, are ushered under the waterfall and into the wooden boat waiting in the hidden cavern beneath. Grudgingly Tulio at last dismounts Miguel, pointedly shoving the stolen bundle back into the thief's arms as he does so. He takes the back of the boat, where Miguel has room to sprawl out behind him. In the cramp conditions the palomino is instead forced to sit on his haunches like a dog. Tulio's face twitches at the absurdity but smooths back into neutrality.

Tulio, who talks enough for the both of them, has not yet said a single word to these strangers. Beneath Miguel's questioning gaze he shrugs minutely. Not even a former language god knows how to interpret these people if he has never heard them speak.

Aware the thief is staring at them, Miguel gawks right back, until she at last flushes and averts her gaze first.

Off their boat goes, into the dark unknown.

...Miguel's jumping into the river if this boat ride takes another eternity.

* * *

 El Dorado. He and Miguel have made it all the way to freaking _El Dorado,_ the city of gold, to-

"Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

Tulio and Miguel wince, turning around to brace for their smiting. And see no deities, wrathful or otherwise, unless one counts the volcano smoking ominously in the distance. Then the two glance at each other. Shock turns into sinking realization for Tulio, while beneath him Miguel puffs up in smug contemplation.

_Oh. Oh, f-_

Tzekel-Kan pushes forward to announce themselves as their high priest and speaker of the gods. It is Chief Tannabok who actually bothers to ask their names.

Beyond the mortal terror, hope rises in Tulio, thin and delicate as a soap bubble. He dismounts and gestures grandly to the stallion beside him, who shines gold as the city itself. "His name is A-" At his partner's subtle shake of his head, Tulio bites back his frustrated scream to finish, "Miguel! His name is Miguel. I am Tulio. And they call us Averter of Evil and Giver of Good Things!"

Well, they are to the thief, aren't they? Miguel's heroically stupid intervention has probably saved her life. Tulio can go on for days with their epithets, but Miguel's snort tells him to keep it down one to each. For now.

It's distraction enough for the thief to do her damnedest to hide behind Miguel. Tzekel-Kan fixates on her anyway. He leans forward to snatch her, before the stallion's warning snort makes him skitter back.

"My lords!" he interjects. "I see you have caught this temple-robbing thief!"

The thief hastily rebuts she is not a thief, but had received a vision from the gods to bring them tribute from their temple to guide them here. Miguel nods emphatically at this, and the last bit of fight in Tzekel-Kan deflates. He hisses she should begin her service by returning the tribute to its rightful place. She scurries off to do so.

"My lords, how long will you be staying in Manoa?"

"Enough!" Tzekel-Kan snaps, rounding on Tannabok. "You do not question the gods!"

Tulio's not one to look that gift horse in the mouth, but because the volcano is still fuming, he clarifies with a vague, "We shall see how the stars align themselves. If the time is right, we shall stay. If not, then we shall depart when the time comes." They both quiver in relief when the smoke dissipates.

The chief and priest take it as sign to escort them to _their_ temple. Tulio is gasping for breath by the end and half-wishes to just crawl onto Miguel, but his poor partner has carried his ass endless miles through the jungle. The least he can do wait now is suffer at his side. Of course, they look properly cool and collected when their new followers glance back their way.

When given the option between the dawn ceremony and the evening feast, Tulio heartily accept both as good, which Miguel concurs with more very emphatic nodding.

Alone, Tulio shivers as all his inner walls begin to crack. He's ready to break down laughing at the absurdity of it all, when Miguel's head snaps up. So Tulio straightens up to, using every commanding inch of his average height. He's about to demand the eavesdropper come out and grovel before their feet, when a single stamp of Miguel's hoof has the thief from earlier doing just that.

When she opens her mouth to babble another run of apologies and spontaneous lies, Tulio wearily pinches the bridge of his nose. "Spare us, please. It's been a long day." Miguel snorts. "Sorry, Miguel, sorry. A long _millennium."_

"...Is there anything I can do to help, my lords?"

Tulio frowns down at his travel-worn clothes. He has done his best to clean down Miguel every evening. Spanish-made clothing doesn't keep that well in a sticky, sweaty jungle.

"You may prepare us suitable garments for the upcoming celebrations," he says at last. "But be quick about it."

"Of course, my lords," the thief says quickly. And only gapes a little bit at Miguel's obviously naked form. Tulio bites down on his laughter, and then a yelp when his partner decides to shift some of his many hundreds of pounds onto his left foot.

She's back in no time with a small pile for him. Tulio tries not to gawk in dismay when she carefully places it into his arms. Only two things in it look like clothing, and he has no idea what to actually wrap around his unmentionables.

"Are you all set, my lord?" the woman asks delicately. "I figure Lord Miguel requires my assistance a bit more."

"Yes, yes," Tulio waves off. "He's going to want a king's ransom woven into his mane _and_ his tail, so you'd better start now if we're making our own feast on time."

Right when he's about to make his awkward retreat to a quiet corner, Miguel whinnies persistently after him. With a put-upon sigh, he halts. Maybe he should remind Miguel neither gods nor groomsmen want to acquaint themselves with thieving servants?

"I-I don't understand, my lord," the woman breaks in nervously.

"Your name," Tulio interrupts, without turning back to them. He's probably beat red by this point. "Lord Miguel desires to know your name."

"C-Chel, my lords. Call me Chel."

In his corner of solitude Tulio manages to devise how to drape the top part over his shoulders and across his chest, because at first he tried setting it around his hips. He's still struggling with the damn lower half when Miguel bursts in. He proudly tosses his mane and tail. Every high-stepped prance makes all the gold earrings woven into them jingle together.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "Looking more golden than ever, Miguel." He frowns at his state of near nudity. "Maybe I should just let it all hang out like in the good old days, huh? I don't have a cape, but this little chest part covers more than most of what the cape ever did."

Too late, does he realize Chel has followed Miguel to the threshold of the bedroom. "Y-You could do that, my lord," she squeaks out. "B-But I could also help you out with that, if it pleases you."

Shame wars with pride with lust. While Tulio chokes on his answer Miguel just rolls his eyes and gently nudges Chel forward. She trains her eyes above his waistline as she ties a stout knot and rights the rest of his flustered garments. He trembles with her heat but clenches his fists and makes no moves until she jerkily pulls away.

Oh, he's claimed serving girls and stable boys, groomsmen and ladies, in haylofts and quiet corners where no horse could ever reach. He's always done his best to scrub their scents from him when he's done, knowing full well what a horse can still smell. He's had his fair share of filthy fantasies over the stifled centuries, but neither of them are their father, to cross the divide between them that at times yawns as wide as the living world to the dead.

"Thank you," he bites out.

Then the tension drains out of him, when he catches exactly what Miguel is staring longingly at. Besides his naked torso.

"...Do you happen to have a spare?"

"...Yes, my lords, I do."

It takes some creative pinning with some small golden pins to affix the feathered head-dress to Miguel's head, but the stallion carries himself like a king afterward. Tulio smiles, pointedly fixing the exact same type of head-dress on himself before it slides off. Again.

He craves to take Miguel's hand, to twine fingers. He settles for slinging an arm over the stallion's neck. "Well, Lord Miguel. Our public awaits."

Together, they plaster on their best godly guises, and prance out to embrace the night.

And at least one of Tulio's frantic prayers is answered.

Manoa has wine! Lots and lots of wine.

* * *

Aside from one small cup to clear the hysteria from her head early on, Chel is sober. So late into the night, she might be the only one left in the square to be do. The young got shuffled into bed a long time ago, the lightweights are snoozing away in corners or slumped over tables, and the ones still standing slur and stumble like happy, stinking sleepwalkers.

Having been promoted from servant of the gods to full-on god-sitter, Chel wrangles some acolytes that are only tipsy into herding Tulio bathed and put to bed. Slurring his words so bad they don't even sound Manoan anymore, he goes off with only a whine of protest.

Which just leaves his partner. His large, golden partner. Who, despite the clopping hooves and jingling mane, has somehow vanished.

_Look what do you did to yourself, Chel! If you take credit for bringing the gods here, then people are sure as hell gonna blame you for losing one on accident!_

"Lord Miguel?" she hisses, trusting his absurdly keen hearing. "Lord Miguel, please. It's time for bed and-"

One moment, Chel is standing awkwardly alone in the dwindling square. The next, an arm warm as sunshine is draped over her. She lurches against the sudden weight, the hairy chin tickling her ear as he slurs sweet, sweet gibberish. Rather than throw the strange weight to the ground, Chel freezes. Slowly, she turns her head.

Green eyes, deep as emeralds, gaze blearily back. She's never seen his face, but she knows it all the same. The golden hair is woven with repurposed earrings, a feathered crown still half-cocked upon his head. A golden beard frames a fine-featured face. His smile lights up the night.

"Lord Miguel!" she squeaks, clamping down on a full-throated scream.

The god grins and slurs more nonsense.

One glance at his body reveals him to be utterly human and utterly naked, except for the strange bits of dark metal dangling at his feet. He sneers as he kicks them away. A wondrous smile overtakes his face as he wriggles his bare toes.

Chel tries lurching forward with him. He topples with a giddy laugh, because apparently he's an utter idiot at walking on two legs instead of four.

Thankfully the next round of acolytes she rounds up are too drunk to realize their beast-shaped herald switched forms on them. Two burly men wind up hauling the god between them, because Miguel kept stopping to pick up apples with his fingers or pet stone jaguars. He sinks into the bath with a deep groan of contentment and, finally more asleep than awake, stops playing with the clothing Chel hastily finds for him.

By the time she guides him to bed, he's regained enough control of his own two feet to stumble with her, because she is the one he's now dead-set on rambling gibberish too. He mumbles until she finally dumps him into bed. He rolls in with a drowsy, ecstatic grin. His arms wrap around Tulio in a death grip and he collapses, snoring into his chest.

Chel's heart melts at the sight.

Part of her is jealous to take the couch. Another part is relieved. As much as she would have liked to wriggle into that pile too, she is not taking the risk of Miguel turning back into the morning. Or Tulio waking up as a giant serpent or something equally terrifying.

* * *

Something is different.

Something is utterly right with the world.

Smacking his lips, blue eyes wrench open to the pre-dawn dark. Far off, he feels the constellations dipping beneath the horizon for the day, and his time ending. There's also the last heady bits of intoxication wearing off, the dull ache of the nascent hangover setting in. With a grimace he flicks his fingers and casts the discomfort away. Jeez, that was easy. Why is always griping about it being... so...

There is warmth clinging to his side. No. Not warmth. Completion, a missing half he has not felt in a thousand years.

He's dreaming again. He hates these dreams the most. Hates himself for wishing they would never end.

But, since he's a sucker for self-pain, he cranes his head to gaze upon his partner, whole in his perfection. It is not Apollo. Not quite. The unbound hair is trimmed much shorter, and a beard frames that should be a hairless face. He's naked, save for his blankets and the feel of cloth wrapped around his hips.

"Miguel," Tulio mouths, for he cannot bring himself to murmur the name.

The moment is perfect.

And then the moment ends.

Blue eyes snap to the intruders on the thresh-hold. Chel hangs guiltily back, but beneath his skeletal mask the high priest smiles sheepishly.

"Good morning, my lord," Tzekel-Kan whispers. "I did not intend to wake you so soon, but-"

"Tomorrow," Tulio cuts in. "We'll do your ceremony tomorrow."

"M-my lord, I-"

 _ **"Leave,"**_ he hisses. The shadows pulse with him, forming snarling wolves and snorting bulls and a hundred horrific things he could unleash upon him.

Tzekel-Kan flees. Chel, rooted by shock, does not. Tulio's defenses dissipate.

"Thank you," he murmurs, running his fingers reverently through golden hair. "For helping this city see him how he is."

Chel's frowns. "In this form or the other, Lord Tulio, I've only seen a god. One who only is what he pleases to be."

Tulio bites back a sob. It was that simple once. Maybe, just maybe, it could be like that again.

"Stay, Chel. Please. If you want to. I-I'd like you to be here, when..."

Chel settles awkwardly on the bedside, before grunting in discomfort and shifting closer. She does not recoil when his free hand reaches for hers, nor when he presses a reverential kiss to Miguel's forehead, and then to her palm.

* * *

He just wants to sleep. He _could_ sleep, but he feels that stupid sun poking through the horizon now. And he doesn't want to sleep anymore.

He feels like he's been sleeping a thousand years.

For a moment he lets himself hang in comfy darkness, marveling at the softness beneath him. It's not hay, it's not sawdust, it's a feathered mattress. Well, at least the part not currently rolled onto Tulio.

Miguel grunts and tries to blearily pull back. It's dangerous, right, for him to be crushing his partner like that. Because he's... so...

But the set of arms around him are like iron, and won't let him flee. With a whine Miguel at last greets the day. Eyes, deep blue and dark brown, gaze tenderly down at him. He tries for his best smile, even as a part of him wonders when he last _looked up_ to someone.

"Good... morning..."

He goes very still, at the sound of his voice. _His_ voice.

Miguel's hands fly to his throat. Then his brain shuts down as he realizes _hands, toes, opposable thumbs._ He keens, low and deep, between giddy euphoria and utter madness.

Tulio is a solid anchor against him. So, instead of losing it, Miguel props himself up against his partner and rips the sheets off. He pokes and prods a human body exactly as it should be, without a single trace of horse left.

"T-Tulio," he chokes out, for the first time he has ever uttered his partner's new name. "I..."

Tulio laughs and presses a reverent kiss to his forehead. "I know, Miguel. I know."

Something's still missing. Miguel glances to his left, to the woman crouching at the edge of the bed, unable to lead and unable to venture closer. He smiles fondly, and she relaxes beneath it. "Chel," he murmurs. "I saw you, all your fear and your cunning. And you saw me too. Saw the both of us."

"You saved my life," she whispers. "So many times. How... how could I not return the favor?"

Miguel reaches out with his left hand. Tremulously, she reaches back. He twines their fingers, reveling at a closeness his old prison could never match. His right hand entwines with Tulio's. As one, he raises them to his lips, and bestows them worshipful kisses.

He weeps then, his love and his joy and his grief, as the dam breaks and a thousand years of emotion come gushing forth. His tears are returned, his hugs and his kisses and endless touches.

As one, they join, and scream their triumphs to the morning.

* * *

In Manoa rain falls from a cloudless sky, still brilliant with the dawn. The terminal rise from their deathbeds, flushed with health and running for their loved ones, as bitterness and betrayal flow away like bad dreams. Even Tzekel-Kan, seething over his aborted sacrifice, feels his heart shudder at the wave of power. And, for the first time since boyhood, weeps at every last emotion shaken from his ossified heart. His cudgel falls from his numbed fingers, as his soul shudders at the thought of ever swinging it down upon another human face.

The following days are long and hot and blissful, like an earthly paradise. The gods are good and their favors shine from bottomless wine bottles to a hundred new types of flower that bloom along the city streets. Lady Chel and Lord Tulio make their customary appearances at the feasts and the sacrifices, all offering up tribute of gold and the occasional animal. For most of the day they remain withdrawn in each other, like lovesick newlyweds.

Lord Miguel, however, is anywhere and everywhere all at once. The same afternoon that sees him dancing through the city outskirts sees him playing with children, from Tannabok's own sons to the poorest of the servant, in ballgames. His radiant face inspires every artist and beneath his all-seeing gaze a hundred forms of pestilence flee Manoa, never to return. Most commonly, he is spotted with his lute or lyre or guitar, strumming so frantically the passerby can't help but caught up in his joys and his sorrows.

There comes one day when the city's joy falters at black smoke on the horizon. The gods vanish for several hours, returning grim-faced and proud, with the promise the source of the smoke shall never be a problem ever again.

It does not take Manoa long to become acquainted with their new gods, no matter their forms. Lord Tulio  is most varied in his appearances, sometimes snarling after predators as a dog or laughing his head off as an owl in the trees. Lady Chel, too, can be spotted as a dolphin frolicking in the lake or as a white hummingbird guiding refugees from the outside world to safe haven.

In the beginning, Lord Miguel is almost always the bearded face in the temple images. Only gradually does Manoa come to realize the vivid emerald and rainbow plumage of his avian forms, the golden shine to his fur when he sprawls out as a cat or makes mischief as a mouse. At first he is only sighted as an animal in the certain company of other gods. Later on he takes his endless shapes for his own joys and reasons alone.

Never again does Manoa see Lord Miguel in the magnificent, gold form they now know to be called a stallion. With three Golden Gods and no herald, perhaps that is why Lord Altivo arrives among the first waves fleeing the Spanish conquests, carrying a group of haggard children upon his back. He is almost always a horse, mist-gray, except when ie pleases him not to be.

Manoa never knows why. It's not their place to ask. Lord Altivo almost never speaks to them directly, while Lord Miguel will gladly answer any question except those pertaining to his choices of shape.

Manoa does not know that one day, when Lord Miguel asks the same question for the hundredth time, Lord Altivo at lat rolls his eyes and answer, "I was dreamed up an actual horse god. You just used the shape sometimes, until you stupidly got yourself locked into it."

Lord Miguel frowns in contemplation. "It let me and Tulio survive a thousand years serving those that helped tear us down. We were a herd of two, but we kept ourselves together. But I think back on those days now and I just..." He shudders, clutching human elbows with human hands. A tiny, hysterical part of him still fears one day all the faith and power will be lost to him, and he'll be stuck again. He's determined to have say in that, should that nightmare ever come again.

Because human words are what are needed now, Lord Altivo grabs his shoulder. "Maybe one day you can come to terms with what happened, and properly race me again. When you can only recall the wind through your mine and the thunder of your hooves, and not the stinging bridle or the spurs of your side." He shrugs. "Or maybe you never will. That's okay too."

Lord Miguel bites his lip. "But what about-"

Lord Altivo tosses his stallion head, snorts, and gallops away for the sheer joy of galloping. The other god shakes his head fondly and watches him go, without a shred of wistfulness.

In the blink of an eye he's gone from the valley outskirts, and back between the arms of his partners. He sighs and melts into their bliss, right back where he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apollo has very loose associations with horses- his sun chariot was pulled by four horses, he was the inventor of the four-horse chariot and received whole teams as sacrifices sometimes, and he was a patron of all domesticated herds. So say one day he gets into a little spat with Hermes and runs off as a literal horse... only to find their power craps out when he's still fuming.
> 
> Hermes was also a god of all flocks and herds :p


	10. the hungry heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wise guy and a dog that's not a dog. 
> 
> Or: how two ex-gods bumble into the werewolf myth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein my muse keeps leading me to weird, weird places.

"Seven!"

Miguel smiles in delight as the dice land his way, because sometimes the best magic in the world is no true magic at all. He can't resist picking up his lute, strumming out a joyous melody as he spins around his partner. It's Cordoba looking for the debauching street performer and his filthy mongrel, but in Sevilla he's just a good-for-nothing gambler with panache. With a dog.

_"Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of gold for we-"_

Tulio barks in tune, weaving around his legs with a lolling tongue. While Miguel engages the gamblers, it's his job to lure in and butter up a crowd, with happy howling and all the tricks a dog can conceivably pull off. Sure, he's a bit dauntingly big, but he's still a hit with the kids. And the ladies. They're delighted to pet his thick, glossy fur. Some actually appreciate slobbery kisses or a wet nose to the cheek.

"One more roll!" growls the grizzled sailor.

"Oh?" Miguel says silkily. "It's quite a big pot you're making me risk. I hope it's quite the prize you've been holding out on me."

The sailor hesitates. Tulio looks him in the eye, cocks his head, and barks in the skeptical way that sends the stingiest bastards over the edge.

"Oh, yeah? Well, I got _this!"_

Tulio's ears flatten as soon as his crappy canine eyes catch sight of yellowed paper. He does not curl his lip in disgust, because the last thing he needs are these people seeing him as anything less than a big, goofy dog. Or draw any overt attention to his long, tapered snout.

Miguel, gullible idiot he is, happily unfurls the map and gasps in delight. "El Dorado," he breathes in awe. "The city of gold. This could be our destiny, our fate."

Tulio huffs dismissively. And pointedly does not whine when Miguel gives him a sorrowful pout he pulls off _so much better._

"I said one more roll!" the sailor repeats, snatching back the map. Miguel stares after it as if someone has snatched back his baby. "My map against your cash!"

"All right," Miguel says loftily, ignoring his partner's look of reproach. Doesn't he get a say in this? Of course not. Because Tulio can't really 'say' anything. Not without dirt and privacy to scratch out a message, because the last time he caught got by a witness resulted in a witch hunt. Again.

When the sailor demands his own dice be used for the final toss, Tulio very pointedly flashes his teeth Miguel's way. Of course his partner blusters and agrees, that it won't be a problem at all, for now they have to own his stupid burst of recklessness until the bitter end. With wild, frantic flourish, Miguel whirls in a dance around the square as he tosses the dice over and over again. The smooth bastard even gets the prettiest girl in the crowd to blow on them, for good luck.

Mood darkening by the second, Tulio shrugs off the own pretty girl scratching at his ears. He slinks to the side, losing some of the playfulness in his stance. He tenses when Miguel at last throws the dice, and braces for the moment when things turn to shit.

Actually landing the seven is so shocking Tulio falls onto his ass with a woof of surprise. Well, for once their luck is looking-

"I knew it! Your dice are loaded!"

...As terrible as ever. Naturally.

Miguel snatches up Tulio's dice and the loot, though he first reaches for the map. He stutters with a wide, frantic smile as the shock in the crowd quickly curdles.

Tulio snarls at the top of his lungs, drawing all eyes upon them him. Hackles raised and ivory fangs bared, he shows them loud and clear the beast they have blindly accepted into their midst.

_"Wolf!"_

Tulio surges. Despite his fearsome snarl his jaws snap shut on air, as he headbutts the sailor instead and leaps over him. As most of the crowd trips over themselves to flee and armed men push their way closer, Tulio and his partner bolt for the rooftops.

Wolves can outpace a human runner for hours, vault over obstacles and clear distances they never can. Really, Miguel's only real advantage now is his opposable thumbs, where he can actually climb things and lug Tulio behind him. For most of their flight he keeps pace with Miguel, but the stampeding bull makes even a wolf rethink his priorities. He lengthens his stride, and makes an escape Miguel can never hope to match.

By the time Tulio backtracks, he just Miguel perform a flying leap into a barrel, and near drops dead from the ensuing heart attack. He growls a string of curses as a heavier load goes atop that barrel, before it is raised into a ship bound for the New World.

Really, Tulio's a _dog._ How is he the one keeping his partner alive?

He darts in a like a thief, sticking to the shadows, and squeezes his way under a cloth cover and between some crates. Moments later he feels the ground beneath him heaved, as the shipment is loaded too.

Great. Now they're stranded on the ship together, with no means of escape.

 In the dark hold hours pass by, but Tulio never loses track of time. He feels dusk descending by the tightening knot in his gut, the power crackling on his fur as it seeks a release... and finds none.

  _Oh, oh f-  
_

Tulio strangles his yelp to only a muffled whine, only jostles the crates around him. The sound might as well be blamed on rats.

From the scream on deck, Miguel is not so lucky.

So close and yet so far, the wolf in the hold can only listen helplessly as his winded partner is dragged out before Cortes, and sentenced to the sugarcane plantations of Cuba.

Tulio slumps with relief. It's their best possible chance, all things considered. Especially when the ocean is right there, a convenient watery grave should Cortes decide a stowaway isn't worth such an effort after all.

* * *

Officially, Cortes's expedition contains only a crew of faithful Catholics and some fine Andalusian horses. The rats and fleas they have stowed their away aboard are incidental, and the bearded guy down in the hold is gotten dropped off at Cuba before they reach the continent anyway.

In the flagship, beneath Cortes's very nose, there is another passenger. His existence is an open secret among some of the men, those most often confined to the lower quarters instead of the open deck. They work very hard to keep him from those with the authority to throw him overboard, even if it means skipping part of a meal as they split their rations between themselves to feed him too.

No one is quite sure how a dog has found his way aboard, but even in the dark of the hold he's a sight for sore eyes. He smells of the forest and meat and doggy things, whenever someone tires of the salt and musty wood. His slobbery kisses and wet nose are drag them from ill moods, now matter how sad or sour. His thick fur and patient silence are a welcome haven, when the homesickness or Cortes's merciless comments become too much.

The ship's dog serves a useful purpose, too. While the other ships suffer with rat infestations, their problem is minimal. More than one man has caught their secret pet catch a rat and shake it dead, devouring it bones and all.

Then comes the night the stowaway escapes, taking with him a long boat and, curiously enough, Altivo. Maybe driving the horse overboard to drown was spite, one last bit of vengeance against his captors?

Stealing the snooty, valuable warhorse, the crew understands. But did the thief have to take their _secret dog_ too?

Really, who does that?

* * *

Soaked and steaming that he threw himself overboard for an _apple,_ Altivo stews all through the night as only an ancient ex-deity can stew. He sprawls out at the opposite edge of the long boat, away from his two other castaways as physically possible. He's too pissed to try sleeping. He's too _suspicious_ to, because that black wolf has fangs that can sink into his throat, when Altivo can't even properly stand to defend himself. It doesn't matter how cheerfully Miguel introduces them to each other - Altivo and Tulio stare each other down all night.

As the sky begins to gray, however, the wolf heaves a sigh and stands, uncurling himself from Miguel's side. Altivo's nostrils flare.

Miguel startles too. "Where do you think you're going?" he demands, winding his hand into thick fur. "I have a debt to repay, thank you."

Tulio barks irritably back.

"Oh, don't be that way. At least I had access to sunlight down in that hold, and-" Miguel huffs indignantly at the wolf's snarl. "Do you know how many _weeks_ we missed out on that ship? Well I did, because I made a mark for every night. And we're making them up, starting today."

Tulio half-folds his ears back. "B-But that doesn't even begin to cover all the time you lost and..." Miguel slouches. "Not that you can make the most of it while stranded at sea, hm? Fine, _fine._ We're bringing this back up when he find some decent land, but don't think I'll forget about this. Because I won't."

The wolf rolls his blue eyes and tries to leave again. Miguel's fingers tighten into his fur. "Not so fast. You were stranded down there for _weeks._ It's time you get some daylight, because the last thing we need to find out is if we're vulnerable to rickets."

Tulio glumly settles back down. When Altivo huffs imperiously, Miguel smiles his way.

"Sorry, old boy. Just trying to get things a bit back into balance. Which starts..." He squints up at the sky. "Any moment now. It's nothing to worry about, really. Perfectly natural for us. Just, please... don't panic. Because it's nothing to panic over."

Altivo swishes his tail once, to show how little this matters to him. He was ancient before their silly little cults were brought to his shores. He has seen everything under the sun. There is nothing left that can-

When the first sliver of sun breaches the horizon, the forms of his idiot companions blur and shimmer like mirages. Then they seemingly switch places.

...Well, they do. Sort of.

The wolf barks reassuringly, tongue lolling and tawny fur gleaming in the morning light. The man rolls his shoulders with a wince, before cracking his knuckles. He slumps against the long boat, blue eyes narrowed.

"Don't you say a word, horse."

Altivo never does. He stares at them with narrowed eyes, but even under scrutiny his first impression holds.

These idiots are just like him. Mostly. Not some sort of witches or werewolves dreamed up by the hysterical villagers of the Pyrenees.

It does beg the question of how they stumbled into transformative magic when it should be long past them, but Altivo is currently a _horse._ So who's he to pry into the old days, when he's certainly not about to volunteer his own?

* * *

_He hangs between one world and the next, hanging to the physical by a thread, one thinning every moment. The end is imminent, but his fear faint and faded. He has long known this day would come. What makes him cold is the silence beside him, where his partner has been a constant fixture in his life for months on end now. He thought his partner was stronger than him, but he bitterly supposes not._

_Oh, well. They'll be together soon enough, in peace everlasting._

_But no, he's not forsaken after all. There is partner, warm and firm against his fading form._

_Blood, hot and forbidden, drips into his mouth when he tries for his partner's name. He chokes on the utter wrongness of it all, of a god lowering themselves to mortal food and flesh, before his hunger speaks for him. Hungrily, he snatches the raw piece of meat with both hands, and devours it._

_Blearily, he sits up, absently wiping the gore from his maw. "Mer-"_

_He pauses, when he realizes how wrong the name feels upon his tongue. Shuddering, he glances at the warmth of his partner._

_A wolf black as night, but with eyes a brilliant blue, dips his bloodstained muzzle sorrowfully. He is thief and terror of the flocks, the killer of the sheep before them. That is all he is now, and will ever be._

_"No," he murmurs, small and meek as a child, before his voice grows with fury and denial. "Y-You did those for **me?** You idiot, you utter fucking idiot!_ _I wasn't worth your humanity! I'm not-" The wolf shivers, taking one step back to the wild woods. "Don't you dare leave me, you idiot. Not now, not ever."_

_Cautiously, the wolf creeps back to his side. They lose all their wariness when they feast upon his kill together, with fangs and blunt human teeth._

_When there is no more left to eat, he throws his arms around his partner, and weeps the grieving tears no wolf can shed. Through the night he holds him, as they strain against their physical and incompatible forms for the oneness they'll no longer reach. Not ever again._

_But he hasn't given up hope, not yet. With dawn on the horizon a thought, terrible and wonderful, strikes him._

_He is no longer Apollo, but who says he can't still be Lycius?_

_Sunrise returns a faint ember of his power, from some near-depleted well of power. It's enough. He makes it enough, when he grits his teeth and digs into his partner's pelt, not to heal this curse, but to bring it upon his shoulders._

_For one last blissful heartbeat, they are as one, and he rips his partner's pain from him as they part._

_His partner's human, horrified cry is a song of victory._

The building buzz of power in his veins wakes him before dawn. Splaying out his front legs for one last stretch, Miguel shakes the past dreams from his pelt and saunters over to Tulio. Grumbling, his partner cracks his neck before reaching for one last check of the map.

"Today has to be the day, huh?" he muses, grinning at Miguel. "Lucky you."

The tawny wolf cocks his head and whines plaintively. Since his clumsy paw forces him to keep his ramblings to a minimum, he scrawls out a simple _STILL OWE YOU._

"Nah," Tulio drawls. "Your map, your destiny, your fate.

Miguel huffs, but they're almost out of time. Selfishly or not, he closes the gap between them. For one heartbeat of bliss, they are one, without prisons of flesh and bone between them. Then he is the one to stand up and stretch out his arms, while Tulio bounces experimentally on all four paws.

"El Dorado is _ours_ , Tulio," he clarifies. "We can still turn back now, if you want."

The black wolf huffs and trots into the undergrowth. Taking up the sword they salvaged from the beach, their one shared weapon in human form, Miguel swings onto Altivo to follow him. How helpful of the old boy, to carry them like this. They've eaten up the ground in no time at all.

* * *

With one very pure head of stolen tribute tucked into her arm and Chima's furious warriors pounding behind her, Chel runs like her life depends on it. Because it very much does.

Thieves and runaways aren't just simply sacrificed, no. They're _executed,_ in the long, drawn-out processes that pleases Tzekel-Kan almost as much as it does his Jaguar God.

Chel rounds the stele of the Dual Gods and their herald. And slams into something warm and solid that definitely should not be there.

Something gray and tall and _big_ rears up even higher, rumbling down at her in reproach as its hooves beat the air above her head. The beast and his rider, with golden hair and green eyes she has never seen on a mortal man, stare down at her. Even more terrifying is the snarling black wolf at their side, with blazing blue eyes and teeth white as bone.

The gods are here, and they are _pissed._

Before she can start spluttering an apology, Chima's warriors catch up to her. She takes the moment of shock to thrust her tribute back into the hands of the man-shaped god. But he just throws it back, laying the theft solidly upon her feet. They foolishly raise their spears against divinity, though the beast's lashing hooves and the wolf's ferocious snarls keep them at bay. At least Chima stares up at the stele, and recognizes the gods, no matter the forms they've taken.

Chel grunts in pained protest when two burlier warriors haul her up. If the gods are escorted back as guests of honor, then she's getting dragged back as their first blood sacrifice.

A snarl to her left nearly makes her jump out of her skin. The black wolf's unnatural eyes are fixated on her captors. Beneath his gaze they guiltily loosen their grip on her.

Chel dips her head in gratitude, but still sulks when she's dumped back into the boat and a one-way trip to the altar. The smaller gods guilty avert their gazes, but the largest one stares her down in knowing silence.

"As the prophecies foretold, the time of judgement is now!"

Chel's heartbeat only somehow manages to race after, because she is most certainly the first soul getting judged. There's no where to run, but she ducks behind the biggest and most neutral of the gods. Stupidly she hopes it's enough for her to escape notice, that the city ogles their new gods so much they'll forget she exists, and not feed her to the one with fangs.

When Chief Tannabok requests their names, the man-shaped god descends from his herald, to be on the same level as his companions.

"I am Miguel and he is Tulio, and we are called... He of the Wolves and Giver of Good Things!" Huh. Chel would've thought it the other way around. While the wolf arcs his neck proudly, Lord Miguel gestures to his herald. "And this is Altivo, called the High."

Chel hides as best she can, but her blood turns to ice when she feels Tzekel-Kan's gaze fixate upon her. Before he can snatch her she unconsciously shifts closer to Lord Tulio. The Wolf God jerks in surprise, but he blinks at first before baring his fangs to Tzekel-Kan. To Chel's amazement, the high priest immediately retreats, eyes wide and fearful.

"The gods sent me a vision, my lord," she tells him shakily, drawing herself up from her fearful crouch. "My only wish is to serve the gods, so they commanded me to bring them tribute from the temple to guide them here."

"Yes," Lord Miguel says after a beat. "Absolutely. Couldn't just drop in unannounced, you know?"

Tzekel-Kan frames his snarl as a smile, as he asks her through clenched teeth to return the tribute to its rightful place now. That's all the encouragement Chel needs.

She takes the back entrance up, so the ascension of the gods won't be lowered by her presence. But she takes too long. No sooner does she return the stupid head to its body does she hear the most powerful souls in the city stop outside the threshold. Chel dives out sight. If they see her she'll pretend to be polishing the stones or praying or something.

"To commemorate your arrival, I propose a reverent ceremony at dawn."

"Ah, then perhaps I could prepare a glorious feast for you tonight."

"Which would you prefer, my lords?"

"Both? Both. Both is good." _Bark._ "...But perhaps we can reschedule that ceremony for noon? Much more auspicious."

"Of course, my lords. Your will is my own."

As Tzekel-Kan and Chief Tannabok depart, Chel can't help but peak from her hiding place for a better glimpse of the gods. Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio stop at the massive image of the Dual Gods, quizzically cocking their heads at the same time.

"Well... it's mostly right, I suppose. Considering, you know..." The Wolf God huffs. "Oh, don't give me that face!  I-I'm just trying to prepare them, Tulio, because-"

Lord Tulio's ears snap in her direction, his whole body turning with a commanding growl. Chel frantically springs out of hiding.

"Don't my mind me, my lords," she squeaks, sidling for the exit. "Just putting back your tribute, like you told me too."

"...Yes," Lord Miguel agrees gamely, twining his fingers into Lord Tulio's thick ruff. "Quite right. Please, can you remind us of your name? We have so many followers these days it's hard to keep track."

"Chel, my lords. Call me Chel."

"Excellent, Chel, thank you!" Lord Miguel beams. "When Chief Tannabok proposed a feast for tonight, he means for us to appear after sunset, yes?"

"...Yes, my lord."

"Splendid, splendid." He grins down at the Wolf God, who heaves a long suffering sigh. "Do you hear that, Tulio? We both get to have our turns after all!" The wolf whines, clearly trying to move, but Lord Miguel only digs his fingers deeper into his pelt. "Oh no you don't, you great big puppy. _Our_ fate, remember?"

"...For what, my lords?" Chel asks faintly. Out of the corner of her eye she gauges how far she has to run. Do they have to work up an effort to strike her dead, or does it only take a thought?

"Why I'm called what I am," Lord Miguel answers smugly.

As the final sliver of sun touches the horizon, the Wolf God makes a final bolt for freedom. And falls with a yelp when the other god full-on tackles him.

Their forms sliver and blur. Chel's eyes cross as she tries to follow them, but when they near seem to merge into one she's forced to blink and turn away.

"Oh, you _son of a bitch!"_

Chel cracks opens her eyes, which immediately fly wide open. Sprawled out on the floor is a pale, glaring man with long black hair and dark blue eyes. His look of annoyance soon turns into disgruntlement, because the tawny wolf standing over him keeps lavishing him with slobbery kisses.

"I can say that, you know! At least part of the time, your mother was _an actual bitch!"_

"...Lord Tulio?"

"In the flesh," huffs the god on the floor. "Unfortunately." He jabs an accusing finger at the tawny wolf that happily leaps off him. "Your adoring crowds, Miguel, your problem! You can't just go and dump the hard part on me while you sit around wagging your tail."

"Lord Tulio, tonight is mostly about getting drunk and having a good time."

He frowns suspiciously at her, wiping off the _new_ Wolf God's slaver with the sleeve that has thankfully manifested upon his transformation. "Really?"

"Really. If you and Lord Miguel... switch roles again tomorrow, you leave him to interact with the people while they're sober and awake." Lord Tulio seems pleased at the thought, and Lord Miguel wags his tail approvingly. "I can fetch you clothes to make you more comfortable among the people, my lord. If it pleases you."

"Yes, Chel, please do."

Chel glances hesitantly at Lord Altivo, who has watched everything in bemused silence. Should she ask him too? He only imperiously tosses his head and trots away, answering that question if he'll be requiring something dignified to clothe his nudity tonight.

With minimal thought Chel grabs Lord Tulio suitable clothes. In blue, of course, to emphasize the feature that sets him apart in both forms. He ogles the clothing with a faint look of horror, while Lord Miguel laughingly barks at his predicament. Trusting the gods to their own devices, Chel steals outside to find an increasingly frantic Chief Tannabok.

"Are the gods displeased?" Chief Tannabok murmurs to her, as the last streaks of color from the sky.

"Not all," she reassures him with her most sincere smile. "Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio have simply decided to bless us with another pair of their faces tonight, and are adjusting their forms accordingly."

The chief nods hesitantly, trying his best to hide a rush of doubt. No doubt part of him suspects Lord Miguel is just having trouble getting dressed. If only.

Chief Tannabok is quick to hide his bulging eyes behind a frantic smile, when a clearly different wolf and man prance forth from the temple. Chel has to bite back a grin, because Lord Miguel is proudly wearing a pair of gold earrings he has no doubt demanded Lord Tulio to place for him.

It's a good night, so good that Chel tries to go to bed later without thinking about the impending ceremony tomorrow. Maybe Wolf Gods actually _appreciate_ human blood spilled in their honor.

* * *

Tulio groans as the buzz in his blood brings him forth from blissful sleep, raising him into a pounding hangover and the impending pain of a transformation. He scrunches his eyes stubbornly shut, burrows deeper into the warm and soft shape in his arms, and cherishes these last few precious moments before the situation reverses itself.

He is reawakened by an agonized howl, and an eruption of power without an outlet that has him screaming into his pillow until it's finally over.

"My lords? My lords, what's..."

Chel trails off, as he and Miguel both decide it's time to wretch up the last of their wine from the night before. They gape blearily up at her, before glancing at each other. Tulio's jaw drops in horror, as he beholds his partner's still very lupine form, and the wide gap between them on this stupid giant mattress.

Oh. Oh no.

Tulio springs from the bed, wrenching off the closest curtain so hard he rips it down entirely. He squints against the blood-red sun, steadily climbing upward.

Then he proceeds to swear in every language known to him. And there are _a_ _lot._

When Miguel whines anxiously, he rounds on him with a snarl better befitting his wolf form. "This is _your_ fault, isn't it? Paying me back for all those missed days suffering on that gods forsaken ship, huh!"

"Lord Tulio," Chel tries again. "What's..." She trails off, unsure if she's treading into outright blasphemy.

Tulio scowls out at the city, aware his face is flushed red. "Nothing. Everything is... fine." Let her think it from fury, and not shame. They are not gods, in charge of themselves and their destinies. They are slaves to the solar cycle and the turn of the stars, and it is all Tulio's stupid fault. If only he'd held onto enough control to kill that sheep with a human weapon, and not with a wolf's fangs, then he never would have fixed this curse upon his partner.

He sulks the rest of the morning, only managing curt politeness when it comes to Chel and the acolytes that bring them breakfast. Even being paraded through cheering crowds in a golden litter is soured by the fact he has to share with smelly, furry Miguel. He keeps his eyes fixed serenely on the crowd, and not the partner giving him sad puppy eyes.

Only Tzekel-Kan's promise of a proper sacrifice has his annoyance with Miguel temporarily forgotten. Together they lean forward with slavering impatience as the high priest summons a squirming bundle. As the smoke clears, Miguel's ears pin back and he whines uncertainly. Despite his current shape, Tulio feels all wolf, as he waits for the blood to fall.

Then the cloth unravels, and reveals the life offered up to be a human one.

Tulio recoils. Miguel springs forward with a snarl. The crowd screams, but the golden wolf, radiant in the sunlight, only leaps between Tzekel-Kan and his victim. The high priest lowers his cudgel, backing away uncertainly.

"This is not a proper tribute!" Tulio states resolutely, for Miguel has no voice of his own right now.

Tzekel-Kan glances helplessly back at him. "You do not want the tribute?"

Tulio glances fearfully up at the lingering dark in the west, and wonders what powers they enrage her by refusing so precious a gift. "The stars are not in the position for this tribute," he clarifies, with the insinuation they will never be.

With predatory stares from both sides, the high priest surrenders. "Perhaps it is possible I... misread the heavens."

They pay him no more mind. Miguel is a solid weight against the shivering sacrifice, keeping him steady until Tulio can carry him into the arms of decent human beings.

Chief Tannabok's offer of huge, heaping piles of good only soothes Tulio's spirit somewhat. It is one thing for a hungry pack to take a human life in the dead of winter. It is quite another for a human to offer up one of his own brethren like a lamb to the slaughter, like his gods are only wolves.

"We're not staying here," he stonily tells Miguel later, from the privacy of their litter. His partner sighs, but nods.

Later, he relates this too Chel, to warn her in advance before they push Chief Tannabok for a boat. Of course they offer her a spot too.

"Yes!" Chel blurts out immediately. "But..."

"Lycaon," snarls Tulio, for it is the foulest curse he knows. Miguel growls in agreement.

"I-"

"Once upon a time where was a monster shaped like a man. He thought himself a clever monster and wanted to see if the gods knew as much as they claimed to... or if he could make them monsters like himself. So he killed his own son, and served up his roasted flesh at a feast where the gods sat as the guests of honor."

Chel gasps, hands flying to her mouth as she blinks back sudden, furious tears. He wonders who she lost, to feel so viscerally. He almost reaches for her hand, but Miguel butts his head into her lap first. She clutches it like an anchor. "Tell me you killed him," she hisses. "Struck him down with lightning. Drowned him in a flood."

Tulio smiles grimly. "Oh, we did so much worse. Everyone complicit in that little boy's murder, everyone at that table we knowingly ate his flesh... We stripped away their human masks, forever, to show the world the monsters they were."

He sighs when he gazes down into Miguel's eyes, so familiar from a lupine face. "And here we are a thousand years after everyone tried to make us monsters. They couldn't succeed then, and they sure as hell won't now."

He rests his hand atop Miguel's head, to draw what peace he can.

When Chel lays her atop his, neither wolf pulls away.

* * *

Once their ride home (or at least to a land where human sacrifices aren't considered a delicacy for divinities) is secured, Tulio is all for holing themselves up in their temple and gloating over the gold. And Chel. Mostly Chel. Because she's so much more interesting, and is actually interested in them.

Miguel understands, he does. But he hasn't properly explored Manoa yet. After all, he was busy getting drunk the night before and moping around all morning while Tulio moped. So off he runs, to enjoy what's rest of the day. He'll be back by evening, if Tulio wants to keep up the day shift for awhile after all, or happily wait for the next morning if he doesn't to switch their skins back to their usual times of day.

Besides, Miguel's currently a wolf. A perfectly ordinary wolf. What can he possibly blunder into without his big mouth to screw things up?

The city streets that bustled with such traffic yesterday are deserted now, reeking faintly of fear. He hears people cowering in their homes and has a sinking suspicion why. At the distant sounds of a struggle, he breaks into a speed Altivo must envy.

His deafening growl stops the guards in their tracks. Pointedly, he weaves between them and the poor man they've been trying to bully back inside. Hackles raised, he directs all his righteous fury upon them, until they at least back off.

"B-But my lord, we're only doing what you've ordered. The Age of the Wolf-"

Wolves lack the lips to spit like men do, but gods does Miguel do his damnedest. Chima, Tzekel-Kan's head stooge, leaps back as it splatters at his feet. Beneath Miguel's murderous stare he stammers an apology, fleeing with his dignity in tatters. Miguel sneezes disdainfully after them. Oh, he can't wait to switch with Tulio. When he gets his voice back he's going to rip Tzekel-Kan a new one before he leaves, and hopefully curb down on his horrors if he can't be around to stop them entirely.

But, here and now, there's someone who needs his help. Miguel is very well-practiced with canine body language. All the fierceness leaves his form, as his ears fold down and tongue lolls out. He bows to the poor man's level, for the guards sprawled him out on the street, and offers a hopeful wag.

The emotional dissonance is so incongruous that the man forgets to be afraid. He cocks his head in utter bewilderment. Miguel mimics the tilt.

"...You didn't order the streets cleansed, my lord?" A nod. "Tzekel-Kan... misread your omens, like he did this morning?" An even grimmer nod, then a hopeful bark to the curious souls brave enough to peak from their windows. "Would... you like me to tell them to come out now, my lord?" _Bark!_

Cautiously, the man raises his voice, to tell everyone it's okay to come out. The first one to actually listen is a very naughty little girl that rips herself out of her mother's arms and bowls across the square. Miguel sits patiently when she hesitates a few feet before him.

Face skewing up with concentration, she leans in an adorably sloppy bow. "Lor' Michel!" Then she gives him the best tribute a child can give a Wolf Dog, a scritch behind the ears, the kind that makes him slump in boneless pleasure.

The sight is absurd enough to draw out most cautious adults, and cause a hoard of their children to promptly swarm him. Yes, the Wolf God loves gold, but pets and snacks are also acceptable. Encouraged, even.

When the reverent adoration wears a bit thin, Miguel patiently wades through his sea of admirers, and bolts when he gets enough room. He vaults over a wear before they can catch up to him, and he beholds what other wonders await in the city. There are craftsmen to admire, giant turtles to ride, and a few howled songs that inspire nearby musicians to each develop the simple melodies into their own masterpieces.

It's happy accident that he bumps into a few boys bouncing back and forth between them. When he's invited to join, he immediately accepts. They're not using their hands, so he doesn't use his paws. It's a fun challenge, bouncing a rubber ball off only his nose and sides.

This is how his partners find him, their arms crossed and faces scowling like disappointed parents. His tongue lolls shamelessly out, because he's the only one of them not currently smelling of sex.

And somehow Tzekel-Kan interprets this all into shoving Miguel and Tulio into a ballgame against fifteen very big warriors. Miguel will never understand how his thoughts draw such stupid conclusions about divinity, even if the gods in question are two has-beens.

Tulio botches the last shot off Altivo, but that's okay. Miguel leaps so far into the air he nearly flies, hitting that ball square with the tip of his nose, and lands the shot just as the sun sinks out of play.

During their obligatory victory dance to proclaim their triumph, Miguel yips in happy surprise when Tulio picks him and giddily spins him. Then Chel tries to hug them, but Miguel squirms out of Tulio's grasp to rear up onto his hind-legs and balance his paws over her shoulders. She tries to smoosh his cheeks, while he joyously pants wolf breath into her face.

"My lords, congratulations on your victory!" Tzekel-Kan crows, as if he had any part of this in nearly getting them all exposed and executed. Miguel's wolf-smile dies a sudden death. "And now, you will, of course, wish to having the losing team... sacrificed to your glory."

The ballplayers gasp and fall to their knees. Chel tries to shrink away, but Miguel holds her resolutely as he rolls his eyes skyward. _"Oh, not again."_

Every eye in the arena snaps in their direction, toward... him, and not Tulio? Oops, did he say that out loud? Miguel rolls with it, because the crowd is with him. "Look, Tzekel-Kan, forget the sacrifices. We don't want _your_ sacrifices."

While Tulio does his very best to not be flabbergasted a talking wolf, Miguel jostles a bit against Chel, for a bit better bipedal balance. He quite likes looking Tzekel-Kan in the eye as he chews him out, and is not about to drop back onto all fours and lose three feet of height now.

"But all of the sacred writings say that you will devour the wicked and unrighteous," Tzekel-Kan argues, pulling himself to his full, effortless height. Stupid bipedal skeleton.

Miguel is possessed to step forward for emphasis and does so, even if it means having his front paws folded awkwardly in the air for balance. Chel and Tulio fall in as his supporters. "Well, I don't see anyone here who fits that description."

"I do," Tulio mutters darkly, His eyes fixate on the high priest.

Tzekel-Kan, ignorant of the peril, grins. "As speaker for the gods, my lord, it would be my privilege to point out even more for you."

When his eye turns to gentle, patient Chief Tannabok, the last of Miguel's good will snaps. "The gods are speaking for themselves now!" he declares, effortlessly striding away from his partners to help every last kneeling man to their feet. "The city and these people have no need for you anymore!"

_"...Should we tell him?"_ Chel whispers distantly.

_"...Nah,"_ Tulio sighs in faint, reverent bliss. _"He's going for the kill."_

Miguel tunes them out, as Tzekel-Kan pales before his advance. "There will be no sacrifices. Not now, not ever!"

"H-How dare you," the high priest murmurs in horror, before his voice raises in outrage. "How dare you! You came before me as _gods_ and then dare show t-these _faces_ to me? I am trying to _save_ you from corruption among these people a-a-and you just-"

"What?" Chel breaks in archly. "Actually prove themselves decent souls worthy of love and affection?"

Spittle flies. "S-So disgustingly _human!"_

"Hate to break it to you, pee-wee," Tulio laughs darkly, "but a god without any regard for human life isn't much of a god at all. Not that some exceptions can't be made, of course." His face twists as he stalks forward. "Now, what is it you were saying about devouring the _wicked and unrighteous?"_

"Tulio," Miguel says firmly. But it is the touch of their hands, fingers twining around fingers, that stops his partner in his tracks and shocks the primal rage from his face. In his other hand, he takes Chel's, their solid connection to human empathy and gods damned sanity. "That's not how this story ends."

"Lycaon," Chel murmurs, when Tulio's jaw juts out mulishly.

Tulio blinks, taken aback, and then grins at them. It gains a sharp, especially human edge when he turns back to a furious Tzekel-Kan. "You're right. I think I remember the ending to this particular morality tale, and does have something to do with faces. Mostly taking false ones off."

Hand in hand, they never blink an eye as Tzekel-Kan howls and claws at his own flesh. Without the guise of humanity he's a disgusting creature, slippery and without remorse. He looks something like a wolf, one twisted and hairless, with a blunted snout and oversized fangs, but that's an insult to canines everywhere.

In vengeance the monster tries to lunge at them, but three very human pairs of feet kick him away disdainfully. He tries to turn upon the horrified crowd, but yelps when Altivo manifests in a screaming gust of wind. He yelps when the Horse God near smashes his chest in. The monster turns tail and runs, chased out of Manoa and out of their world entirely.

For a while they stare after him in grim satisfaction. Then Tulio blinks. "...We didn't just unleash a new plague of werewolves, did we?"

Miguel huffs a laugh and raises their hands to lovingly kiss Tulio's as human as own, regardless of what shines in the sky. "Please, Tulio. The only monsters out there are those beneath the skin already."

And now there's nothing holding them back, from what lies beneath the skin of the other.

After reassuring their people all is right in the world, Tulio and Miguel invite Chel in. She squeezes their hands, and throws down the gates.

Facsimiles of flesh and bone fall away, as the gods fall away from the physical plane and a world utterly their own, where three souls sing as one. There is no pain and no darkness, only endless love and eternal bliss.

Until a prayer comes calling, of course. Or cosmic oneness grows a bit stale for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one-shot evolved so much as I wrote it. Originally it was gonna be a reverse of the last one-shot, only with Tulio being stuck as the animal aspect instead of Miguel, and then my inner Miguel offered himself as tribute... and here we are.
> 
> Lyceius ('He of the Wolves') is a legitimate epithet for Apollo, mostly because connections to Lycia - the same country Lycaon founded, but also because Apollo's shepherd aspect was called upon to ward off and kill wolves. Hermes is associated the herds and their predators, but wolves are also thieves too :p
> 
> Lycaon is one of the oldest, fullest variations of the werewolf myth. The bastard either warns against trying to prove Zeus isn't all-knowing, offering human sacrifice to the gods, or just, you know, killing and eating your own damned kid to prove a point.
> 
> Even more interesting than the turn into (or possess) a wolf to eat people werewolves are the variations where they are literal 'hounds of God,' where folk magicians turn into animals to spiritually battle evil forces. Unfortunately, the possible variation in the Pyrenees (the armier?) is vague if it ever actually existed all- couldn't find any reputable sources for it, but variations in Italy and Eastern Europe are a little more detailed.
> 
> Tzekel-Kan is the sort of monster that can't thrive in a pack because it tends to kill everyone around it in its quest for power. It is also ugly enough to be shot on sight by the gun-happy Spaniards marching their way through the area.


	11. a glorious feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Visit your wrath upon this nonbeliever! Show us the truth of your divinity!"
> 
> Tulio is terrified. But mostly pissed.
> 
> If they're gonna die here, he wants a proper last meal.
> 
> Or: what happens when you feed a god.

"My lords, why now do you choose to visit us?"

It's an innocent, heartfelt question. One Tulio is spared from answering when Tzekel-Kan rounds upon his chief to snarl, "Enough! You do not question... the gods!"

_Sure you didn't mean yourself there, Tzekel?_ Or maybe because even the high priest is having a hard time actually seeing two guys and a horse as gods. Either way, Tulio appreciates the save. Really. It's one less thing to blow up in their faces.

"That's right!" Miguel declares haughtily, even as his partner's eyes bulge out in horror. "Do not question us, or we shall have to unleash our awesome and terrible power! And you don't want that!"

Tulio crosses his arms and tries act stern out of solidarity. Of course it's all for nothing when Tzekel-Kan actually puffs up indignantly. "Well, yes, we do!"

"You do?" Miguel echoes, bewildered as Tulio.

People give faces and personalities to great, unknowable powers to plead and bargain with him. The storms aren't so terrible if there's a whore-monger behind them that can be appraised with temples and fine maidens. It's why Tulio is here, when people prayed to avoid bandits on the roads or their flocks from being ripped apart by predators. It's why Miguel was a healer for so long, because people preferred him driving away pestilence then calling it down upon them.

Worshipers calling for their wrath to be delivered upon their enemies? Sure. But upon _themselves?_

"Of course we do!" Tzekel-Kan crazily confirms, waving his arms at Tannabok. The chief rolls his eyes. "Visit your wrath down upon this nonbeliever! Show us the truth of your divinity!"

In the span of a day, Tulio's gone from aimlessly lost in the jungle, furious at Miguel for leading him to a bunch of rocks, terrified for their lives, awed at the golden city behind the waterfall, and now terrified for their lives again. Instinct tells Tulio to shut up in the face of the smoking volcano or fall to his knees and grovel for forgiveness, but he's had enough emotional whiplash for the next century.

He draws himself up indignantly, freezing the high priest with his coldest expression. "We come all this way, out of the sunrise and over who knows how many thousands of miles, for _you_ to demand things of _us?_ Without a single proper prayer first?"

"W-W-Well-"

If they're being faced down by utter oblivion, Tulio's going down with a rant of the proper proportions. So he glances to Miguel, who is looking less terrified and more affronted by the second. "Are you _sure_ you don't have any surprise plagues you've been holding out on me? Because I think one might just be called for."

Before Miguel can blow up at him, Chief Tannabok blurts out, "Tribute, my lords!" Realizing the eyes of the city back upon him, he does his best to make his voice calm and cajoling. "You have come a long way, my lords. Please, let me treat you at my own table. My family and I were preparing for our supper. I pray our humble offering is enough to tide you over, until a more proper ceremony might be planned in your honor."

All eyes flick to the volcano, which chooses that moment to stop smoking. With the chief having extended a formal invitation, Miguel and Tulio are legitimate guests here after all.

"Yes! Certainly acceptable, don't you agree, Lord Tulio?" Miguel says brightly, with a frantic wideness to his smile.

Tulio softens, both for his partner and out of his own relief they're not due for a smiting after all. "It's a start," he allows.

Maybe, just maybe, a bit of food and regard is what they need. Just because they're old, abandoned, and near-forgotten doesn't change their core nature. With enough faith, and a healthy dose of fear, they can show these people some _real_ divinity.

* * *

Chel just wants to put the stupid head back and keep her head low, really, at least until the city focuses solely on these new 'gods' and forget the thief that nearly ran off with their tribute. Then she's running, golden insurance or no, and never looking back. It won't be long until the blood starts flowing like wine, either on Tzekel-Kan's orders or the gods remembering how good humanity tastes. Whatever happens, it's not gonna be her on the altar.

"You, there!" Chel snaps around, throwing her hands out in the air to show, yes, she was just reuniting the head to its body. The young messenger jerks back, his expression almost... fearful. "You're the acolyte the gods sent the vision to, yes?"

"I am," Chel answers, drawing herself up with well-practiced grace. When the messenger tries and fails to stutter out his purpose, she crosses her arms. "No one else listened to their dreams last night, did they? And now the gods are twiddling their thumbs because there's no tribute ready."

"Y-Yes, my lady."

Before her mouth can drop, Chel blurts out, "Well, we better go and fix that, won't we? If not, heads are going to roll, and they're not going to be mine."

The messenger gulps. Chel takes strength from it, as they hurry to the palace fast as dignity will allow. Sure, she might have been appointed priestess of this brand new cult by virtue of her half-assed lie, but she's served in all sorts of ceremonies and sacrifices over the years. She knows from example how to imperiously boss people around, and the offerings that seem best received by the crowds and thus the gods.

Chel arrives to find the kitchens with the staff in frenzied panic, hurrying to finish a meal intended for Chief Tannabok's family as well as trying to prepare literally everything else in storage. She's almost surprised to not find a certain someone trying to command the chaos.

"Where did Tzekel-Kan get off to?" she asks the closest servant.

"He hurried off to prepare a... p-proper sacrifice, my lady. He said we could hurry up the lesser offerings o-o-or become them ourselves."

Beyond panic and into a new state entirely, Chel rolls her eyes. "Of course he did. Well, what's ready to go out?"

"The fruit platters, but they're so _simple,_ and-"

"Do we have wine to send out with it?"

"Only the less stuff meant for human nobility," a man glumly informs her. "I sent our fastest warriors to fetch the sacred brew from Lady Paquini's priestesses, but it takes time to haul out those casks."

So instead Chel asks where the storage is and strides over. Her eyes nearly boggle at the amount of gourds neatly stacked on shelves up to the ceiling. "Let's start with pulque. Lots and lots of pulque. I don't want the gods seeing the bottles of their goblets."

Drunk gods are happy gods, and happy gods don't smite people.

When the platters are ready, the servers turn expectantly hopes to her. Chel waves her hands over the offerings, closes her eyes, and murmurs vague words she hopes sound earnest. Because her prayer for the gods to not burn the hall in their displeasure is very much sincere.

She leads the procession out to the hall. Lord Tulio and Lord Miguel sit in seats of honor, with a dozen attendants to rush them with requests if they so much as sneeze. Across the table sits Chief Tannabok, alone. Chel's heart sinks when she realizes how little faith her own leader has in this feast ending positively. She hopes Chieftess Miya and all their little boys are safely evacuated, and not sequestered somewhere they'd be trapped if angry gods bring the ceiling down around them.

Pasting on her best smile, Chel ventures forth. Lord Tulio's body language, expression closed and dark blue eyes stormy. Lord Miguel is more open, but the fingers tapping against his knee betray either impatience or... anxiety? Maybe they're a thousand years out of practice dealing with mortals. Or...

No, they better not be. Chel didn't stick out her neck like that to be executed alongside two lying blasphemers.

"Something to slake your thirst, my lords?"

Catching a whiff of her pulque, Lord Tulio's face shudders further. But Lord Miguel quirks a hopeful smile, holding out his goblet. She pours him a drink he happily imbibes.

"Thank you, Chel," he says brightly.

She's never told them her name, but those emerald eyes know her all the same.

She dips her head with a smile. "It's an honor, my lord."

* * *

Tulio startles at a stab in the dark that strikes true, then chokes down his envy. It's the smallest of things, knowing a name not yet given. But it's a beginning.

He holds out his own goblet expectantly. The libation is white as milk, but flows thicker, frothing at the top. There's a bite to its scent that at least promises alcohol, so he downs it without thought for taste.

First there is a taste like sour yeast on his tongue, but true to their hopes, it sinks deeper than that. He has almost forgotten how the fear of others tastes. At first the bite is invigorating, stirs up things in dark and primal in his blood a thousand years beneath monotheism forced him to repressed.

Then the flavor becomes cloying, to the point where he near spits it across the table. He stops remembering the healthy reverence of his golden age, and recalls only the frantic panic of his last years beneath his first name. His followers had no longer been the furious force driving the mobs, but their victims, and their last prayers to him sent in screams before they cut off forever.

Yet then there is the aftertaste, light and sweet and true. Tulio looks to Chel and know that blindly stumbling into her has saved her life. It's faith, newborn and prone to pop like a soap bubble, but by gods it's _there._

"Perfectly acceptable," he allows. "Thank you."

He wants to claim it hits the spot, fills parts of him that have gone thirsty for centuries, but that's an unfortunate lie. He's so very sick of fear.

Chel nods to him, motioning for the other servers to come forward. The first course are ripe, succulent fruits straight from the trees and the vines. Even the juiciest cloys with fear. Most are bitter with no small mix of disbelief.

"Beautiful work with the city, so far," Miguel says casually, picking at grapes neither of them feel much like eating anymore.

Chief Tannabok starts. "T-Thank you, my lord. My family always strives to leave Manoa better than those who ruled before us, for our children and all those in the city yet unborn."

"Oh, do I see it!" Miguel gushes. "You've done such a marvelous job building up the city that we simply had to come down and see it for ourselves."

Tulio quirks a small, fond smile as his partner pulls a delightfully puzzled chief into a rousing discussion of city planning and every minute improvement made to Manoa's legal system since Tannabok took power. Miguel has always delighted in the foundation of towns and their civil institutions. Manoa, so utterly removed from everything they have ever known, is fascinating to him.

For his Tulio sits back and enjoys Miguel's zest for all things law and order, sipping his pulque and throwing in glib comments when the moment calls for it. All three of them relax into their chairs, and the servants slip out of their shocked silence enough to start whispering.

Oh, not in Chief Tannabok's earshot, of course. They think they're safe in the kitchens, freaking out over all the courses yet to come. But he's a messenger god, and the words come to him because his mind is open and bored.

"Don't worry about the roast peccary," he assures Chel when she comes round again. "It's not burnt."

Her brows draw together. "It was _on fire,_ my lord."

"Which only cooked it to perfection." He grins at her skepticism. "Go ahead and check. When I'm around, no banquet is anything less than perfect."

Chel does indeed go off to check. He smirks into his goblet when the terrified cook beats down the last of the flames to discover only a peccary cooked to the tenderest degree possible. The startled swears of the kitchen staff are sweet as prayers.

He and Miguel both back bite their laughter when the expositions only explode when the staff find all the frantically emptied store rooms full once more, even those close far from filled before the gods' arrival.

"Is something funny, my lords?" Chief Tannabok asks, unworried only because their good cheer is suddenly so infectious.

"Yes." Miguel smiles radiantly. "It's so easy to forget how _little_ something can be, and still loved as a miracle."

Tulio rolls his eyes, because he knows exactly what's happening outside. "Miguel, only you can call every sick person in this valley spontaneously getting better a _minor miracle."_

Chel stumbles in surprise. Not that she falls, because in the blink of an eye he's there to steady her. Even if she's halfway down the table.

Miguel smirks at them, because with that little rumor loosed his power is already spreading like wildfire, a thousand pains and plagues fleeing in its wake. "Well, now they are."

"M-My l-"

Chief Tannabok can say no more, before he is swarmed by a pack of his own joyous offspring. His wife, still a bit dazed, follows at a more sedate pace with a babe in her arms. At her side walks a tall, athletic man with a toddler riding one broad shoulder, contentedly chewing the man's horse-hair crown.

"Oh, there you are, Altivo!" Miguel calls. "I was wondering where you got off too."

The long-faced man gestures at the pack of children. He hands off to the toddler to its mother, takes one final bite of a golden apple, and settles at the god side of the table. Because of course he does.

"Hope you didn't fill up on apples," Tulio snarks.

The Horse God takes the seat across from his, just to 'accidentally' step on his feet as he does so. Despite his current shape it still lands hard and heavy as a horse hoof. Tulio smiles tightly back, because what have been blinding pain mere hours ago is now only an annoyance.

"Lovely that you finally all made it!" Miguel gushes, before smiling hopefully at Tulio.

Chel tenses, because neither she nor Tulio have realized they're still holding onto each other. Because the invisible signal sound anyway, as the palace staff emerge with platter upon platter of food, far too much for even Chief Tannabok's grand table.

The grand hall is a little less spacious, with so many seats and tables suddenly taking up room, but all their company is still only comfortably close to each other.

The servers cautiously set down their platters, slowly venturing to chairs and benches that whisper to them and them alone. Not that they need servers tonight, when the pitchers and platters have so thoughtfully decided to replenish themselves. There are spaces let unfilled, but steadily warriors and courtiers and humbly-dressed servants trickle in until only two seats await their occupants.

Chel gawks at the empty chair beside the gods themselves. "That's for _me_?"

Tulio shrugs. "Where else did you see yourself sitting?"

She thinks for a moment, then grins as she claims the chair next to Miguel. So Tulio just plops down into his lap.

* * *

The night passes in a blur, mostly when Miguel pulls out his lute and almost all those still sober enough to stand join Tulio in his wild, frantic dance. Including Chel.

Sometime in the hazy dark, where the shadows dance and leer, Chel pushes away the hand feeding her grapes. "Fo'got somethin'," she slurs, because it's _important._

"Hm?" Miguel looks blearily down at her, and then his eyes unfocus. "Oh. I shee. I got-"

"No," she blurts out. "No. Nonono. _I've_ got it."

"Whazzut?" Tulio murmurs, emerging from beneath them.

"Nonono," Miguel repeats. _"She's_ got it."

"Oh?" The same lazy smirk crawls across their faces. _"Ooh."_

Grinning back, Chel throws out her hand, and _pushes._

* * *

The following morning, when they are considerably more sober, three gods thoughtfully consider the red and white butterfly flying frantic circles around Tzekel-Kan's empty chambers, and the tell-tale bunch of clothing left behind.

"B-B-But I don't even know what I did," Chel splutters.

"It's pretty self-evident," Tulio points out.

_"Tulio!"_

"Like you're one to talk. _How_ many people you chased after got turned into plants again?" Tulio crossed his arms smugly at their partner's indignant splutter. "I thought so."

"I... didn't want him to hurt anybody," Chel murmurs, trying to think through the invincible haze the wine had given her. Only, not all of that had been the wine. None of them are exactly sure what went down the night before. Maybe it's a secret only the intoxicated can know. "And maybe teach him a little bit of a lesson?"

"A 'little bit?'"

"A very big lesson. By showing him how small and insignificant he is in the grand scheme of things."

"Yeah," Miguel sighs. "That'll about do it."

"You... don't have to change him back, you know. I kinda like him better this way."

"Hm, Tulio. You do have a point there."

Chel considers it, then she frowns at the cobwebs in the high corners and the hungry birds singing in the morning light. She holds out her hand imperiously. The butterfly perches at the tip of her finger, trembling. "Do you remember a man named Xaya? You executed him as traitor, because he tried to run away when you were going to sacrifice him anyway." The butterfly trembles harder. "His soul was a butterfly in your hands, and you crushed him slow and hard, because you loved the pain it caused. And then you tried to do the same to an innocent man last night, because you thought all the gods were like you, seeing everything beneath them as insects to be stepped on."

For a moment, she considers pinching those skull-marked wings off and leaving him to the spiders. "But I'm not like you or your Jaguar God, Tzekel-Kan. So, just this once, I'm going to show you the mercy you never showed my big brother. And maybe you'll have the sense of shame to learn your lesson."

Disdainfully she flicks her fingers. A man, naked and disgraced, falls at their feet.

But the gods turn their back to him, and look to better things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original ending had Chel just trying to put the fear of gods into Tzekel-Kan, and accidentally causing him to keel over from a heart attack. Then butterfly karma happened XD In Meso-American myth the dead sometimes reincarnated as butterflies or hummingbirds.
> 
> As a god of law and order Apollo's domain included the foundation of towns and civil orders. He would totally be the sort of god to geek out over obscure tax codes and sewer planning XD
> 
> As a god of travelers and protector of the herds, Hermes was by extension a god of sacrifices, feats, and hospitality.


	12. gods don't bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gods don't bleed."
> 
> Chel's idiots would beg to differ.

When the last of the gold is heaped onto the piles that have near taken all the floor space in the temple, Chel graciously sees the last of the servants out so that the 'gods' might bask in their tribute. Instead she drags her idiot partners to the couch for a crash course on Manoan mythology. Where all this gold is going, and how it's getting there, are second priorities to not being found out. And gruesomely executed.

"Five Worlds, this one being the one 'we, the Dual Gods,' rule." Tulio nods. "Sure. Got it."

Chel crosses her arms. "Do you? Really?"

"We'll keep it vague so people can make up whatever they want to believe about how we fit into the cosmic order." Miguel smiles reassuringly. "Trust me, Chel, enigmatic non-answers are something we have down pat."

Tulio snorts. "Mostly you."

Miguel waggles his brows. "Oh, like I didn't teach you a few tricks myself."

The banter is absolutely adorable, really. But _now,_ of all possible times? "Bedroom eyes later," she butts in. "Basic survival skills now."

The sun-haired man blinks obliviously. "Like?"

"Like lying low, Miguel," Tulio deadpans. "And not nearly throwing centuries of tradition out the window because you got upset."

Miguel sags in defeat as he recalls that near fatal stumble in turning down a human sacrifice. Privately Chel thinks it would be no bad thing for that practice to be thrown down forever, and Tzekel-Kan with it, but that's beyond the power of three con artists trying to scrape by until their escape.

"There's that," she acknowledges. "But also, you know, minimizing the chance of people noticing the obvious." At their blank stares, she rolls her eyes and once more holds up her hand, imitating that gods awful hiss Miguel had sent her way just the night before her.

Tulio side-eyes him. "What was that even about, anyway?"

Miguel sinks lower into the couch, his face bright red. "I... might have attempted a curse, there."

"A curse," Chel and Tulio both echo blankly.

"A nice one, all things considered!" Miguel blurts out quickly. "Admittedly, I did get a bit carried a way, so I'm sorry about any, um, bad feelings still there and-"

Tulio burrows his face into his hands. "That little voice Miguel, that keeps you from doing stupid things? _You don't have one!"_

"What is it you said to me?" Chel asks archly. "Something about striking me dead with a lightning bolt?"

Then it's Tulio's turn to flush. "T-To be fair, that used to be a _very common_ way to go."

Miguel heaves a long-suffering sigh, ticking a list out on his fingers, "Tullus, Ixion, Capaneus, Salmoneus, Lycaon-"

"Didn't he get turned into a wolf?"

"And Da- er, his palace got burned down with a lightning bolt to really drive the point in." Miguel's smile takes on a bitter twists, while Tulio glances guiltily away. "He liked his lessons big, flashy, and permanent. Fatally so."

"What?" is all Chel can say.

They turn even brighter shades of red, stammer, and stupidly wave their hands to get her to change the subject. She does so gladly, because she has bigger things to worry about than their... weirdness. Even if their weirdness basically _is_ the problem.

"You do realize," she says flatly, "that we would all be dead right now if Lady Raima hadn't decided to throw you a bone yesterday." As one they all glance at their volcano, and sigh in relief another eruption isn't impending. "Because, for all the shit you talk, you can't actually show ineffable 'proof' of your divinity. Because you don't have any."

Tulio groans. "Oh, do we know."

"Do you?" she snaps, because short of strangling sense into them she doesn't know if anything's getting through. "What happens the first time you take a bruise? Or cut your bare foot on a sharp rock? How are you going to explain away that?"

"Uh, too much mortal food? Thickens up the ichor." Tulio shrugs languidly. "But hey, we 'incarnated' for a reason, right? Of course we're not gonna pass up perfectly good tribute offered to us."

"Also, it's delicious."

"That too!"

"...What?"

Tulio squints at her. "You know, the light and ethereal stuff real gods bleed, because they don't partake directly in the fruits of the mortal plane and all that crap. Ichor, or whatever you people call it here."

"Gods don't bleed," Chel says succinctly, and glower as they both cock their heads at her.

"...At all?"

"At all." Because now is _not_ the time to debate how metaphorical the Wine Goddess actually having wine flow her veins is supposed to be in that old creation myth.

"At _all?"_ Miguel repeats incredulously. "I mean, even C-"

"Don't you mention that name!" Tulio snaps. "That's at least one headache we left behind back home!"

"B-But, when happens when gods get wounded?"

"They don't," Chel answers. "Because _gods don't lose."_

"Not even against other gods? Because your creation myth has at least four instances of-"

She pinches the bridge of her nose to try holding the headache at bay. At last Miguel has the decency to shut up. "You're mortal, you idiot, in case like a day of fake divinity has already gone to your head. You'll die screaming just as easily as I will beneath Tzekel-Kan's knife if he ever catches you bleed. So, please, stop taking stupid risks. For Tulio's sake, if literally nothing else."

She stares at them long and hard, to see if they at least care for the other, if not for themselves or her. Tulio refuses to look her in the eye. Miguel at least has the decency to squirm. His emerald eyes scan the room, before fixating on something. His stance steels as he rises from the couch. His partners watch him in confusion, before their mouths fall open in horror.

From the hoard of tribute Miguel picks up a gold-hilted knife. The obsidian blade shines wickedly as he bares his palm to them. _"Your_ gods don't bleed," he murmurs softly.

Chel is too late to tackle him before he slices himself open. She nearly screams at the red dripping from the knife, the fresh red wound behind in a place impossible to hide. "Y-You-"

Before her disbelieving eye, the wound weaves itself shut. Even the blood on the knife evaporates into thin air.

She inhales, and holds her breath for eternity. At long last, she holds out her hand. "Give me the knife," she commands, deathly calm.

He obeys. Not even a drop of blood remains, so she carefully sets the blade aside. Then she snatches his hand in both her own. The skin is smooth and unmarred, without even the smallest sliver of a scar. Chel stars long and hard into his bearded face. His face is youthful, without even the smile lines that should crinkle around his mouth and eyes. She still cannot pin an age to him, for the face is timeless.

Then she slaps that perfect, handsome cheek as hard as she can. The skin is smooth and soft like human skin should be, the sound darkly satisfying. Miguel reels back like a man should. Yet, after a heartbeat even the vivid red print she left behind fades into his shameful flush.

"I deserved that," he murmurs, soft and sincere. It only sparks her temper further.

"We-"

Chel furiously rounds on Tulio. His mouth promptly snaps shut. "You too?"

Silently, he draws his own knife from his belt. The wound that immediately heals in broad daylight is no illusion, to be rationalized away like those shadow tricks from the night before.

He tries and fails at a smile. "You know, we technically never said we _weren't_ gods."

Chel backs away, shaking her head. She wants to wretch. Two human idiots, reliable in their ability to bullshit their way in winning her way out. That's all she wanted, all she needed. And now yet more treachery and lies. How perfectly, utterly predictable.

"Because we _aren't."_

Chel pauses. Never had she thought to hear such bitterness from _Miguel._ The sunny smile fallen from his face, he leans wearily against the gold, timeless face ancient and exhausted in a way not even the oldest man alive can hope to match.

Tulio's face crumbles. "Miguel-"

"Where is our father, Tulio?" Miguel snaps at him. "Where's our mighty pantheon? Where are our mothers? My sister, my sons? _Gone, all gone!"_

Chel inhales shakily, trying for calm despite the tears welling up inside her. "W-What happened to them?"

"Forgotten and faded." Mood shifting, he smiles wanly to her. "Just like Altivo's family. That was our fault, you know. Our cults swallowed the great gods and forgot the little ones. Now it's the two of us, Miguel and Tulio. Tulio and Miguel. Weak and pitiful shadows."

"Yeah?" Chel retorts. "Well, it's me now. Just me. The gods took our grandparents, and our parents, but it was Tzekel-Kan that took my big brother from me."

She doesn't recall which one of them moves first, who comforts the other. What matters is the steady arms around her, the soothing hand on her back and in her hair, the hot tears dripped onto her shoulder and the sobs muffled into them.

When their tears are wept, and sorrows spent for the time being, they simply lean to each other, forehead to forehead, enveloped in a solace not even earnest gold can provide. Then she raises her head from her godly huddle.

"You know," she murmurs, "there's something I still don't understand."

"Hm?" Miguel murmurs into her chest.

"Spain killed your family. It nearly killed you. And you still want to go _back?"_

"With a shit ton of gold," Tulio points out. "Willingly offered as tribute, mind you. There's power in gold, and it buys more power in Spain than it ever could in a whole city of it. We survived a thousand years in obscurity. We can live a few decades in comfort, but maybe we invest that a bit more wisely this time around and live peacefully until-until..."

"You fade away into oblivion?" she finishes dryly.

He shrugs, gaze sliding away even as his fingers twine deeper into her hair. "We all go, sooner or later. Even gods."

"Only most survive the end of the world multiple times, or refuse to die and have all their thrashing turn into earthquakes," Chel points out.

"In Manoa, sure," Miguel acknowledges. "But this is _your_ home. A-And _theirs."_ He jerks a thumb back at the massive golden idol of the Dual Gods, so high and smug on their Feathered Serpent. "Trust us, when the alternative is getting _eaten_ by the dominant power, dying as yourself is the pleasant alternative."

Chel gapes at them in disbelief, but their faces are earnestly resolved. Has literally _nothing_ she just taught them sunk in?

"The Dual Gods don't live here," she states blankly. "They haven't ever lived here. They stayed around just long enough to raise the Fifth World after the Crocodile God and Jaguar God fucked up the fourth, and they also fucked off to parts unknown. They never even bothered to give us their names. _The Dual Gods_ didn't save my life. _The Dual Gods_ didn't stop a human sacrifice today. Manoa dedicated a shit ton of gold to _Tulio and Miguel,_ and I am staring right at them."

Her partners blink at her and then at each other.

"Wait here a moment," Tulio says, before extracting himself from their arms. They whine plaintively after him, but he clears the top steps of the temple in a running leap. Chel hopes what lingers of their immortality extends to broken necks.

In no time at all, he's back, clutching something conspiratorially to his chest. He motions his partners into his secret.

Miguel gasps in awed delight. "Tulio, is that..."

"Yep," their partner says smugly. "'Our destiny, our fate,' right? That something I have to check for myself."

Chel's brow furrows at a handful of perfectly ordinarily pebbles. Her gods grin at her. Then Tulio casts the stones straight into the air.

Chel bites her lip as the pebbles arc. Some clatter onto either of the golden thrones, and the others beside it. And that's it.

"See?" Miguel purrs smugly. "I told you so, but you-"

"Rub it in later, Miguel," Tulio scoffs fondly, before smiling at Chel's bafflement. "May I help you see things a little more clearly?"

"Please," she mutters.

Gently, Tulio cocks her head to just the right angle. One moment, she sees senseless the stones. The next, ordered purpose. When she squints just so, the pattern fully manifests. Part of it makes perfect sense. The other part makes her frown.

"T-That can't be right."

"Why not?" Miguel counters.

"B-Because I'm not worth it."

"Oh, you most certainly are."

"B-B-But-"

"What?" Tulio breathes in her ear. "Don't feel like extending your stay an extra thousand years or so?"

Chel considers the vacant space where her throne shall lie. And grins.

But something still nags at her.

"...Miguel, what exactly were you trying to curse me with?"

"J-Just into a swan. For a day or two. Until you learned your lesson."

She and Tulio burst out laughing, much to Miguel's spluttered indignity. "Swans are graceful creatures, thank you! What's so wrong with swans?"

"Besides what Dad did as one?"

"Well, what animal _didn't_ he ruin for everyone else?"

"...Point taken."

"You probably could now," Chel muses as she considers the heaping piles of gold now. "If you wanted to, that is. Turn me into a swan. Or yourself."

Miguel and Tulio smirk, when they take her hands and show her all else nascent divinity is capable of, and they exalt her to heights no bird can ever reach.

* * *

Gods don't bleed. In certain states of being, that is. The Sun God soars on high, invulnerable at noontime's zenith for all he must die in the evening to be reborn upon the dawn. The Moon Goddess lights the dark in his absence, though she who was once his shining twin was scarred and made dimmer by the Crocodile God's hungry hands. So does the Crocodile God thrash, dying but never allowed the final release. His eternal death throes are the earthquakes.

The Golden Gods, however, do not restrict themselves to their heavenly spheres. They walk among us in physical forms, and partake in the same earthly pleasures as we do because how else will they know us best?

They bleed, as we do, if hurt or pushed to their limits. This is rare, in the direst of circumstances, for the Golden Gods rule this world, and are not shaken easily. Yet still they know vulnerability, if only for slivers of seconds. So do they know doubt and fear, hunger and hardship, the worst demons that prey on human hearts.

How else can they cast off such weakness from us, and drive it back into the dark, if they know not what to search for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greco-Roman gods bleed ichor and are actually wounded a fair amount in the myths. Eating a diet of nectar and ambrosia only keeps their blood light and ethereal, because Greco-Roman gods did not actually eat the foods offered to them. This... does not apply to Miguel and Tulio anymore. 
> 
> The thunderbolt was Zeus' execution method of choice, and boy did a lot of people piss him off. Tullus was an irreligious Roman king who failed at his rites, Ixion was suicidal enough to try stealing Hera, Capaneus literally asked for it, Salmoneus impersonated Zeus... and Asclepius, son of Apollo, broke the laws of nature by resurrecting the dead.
> 
> Joke was on Zeus, though. Asclepius got better. And became a god :p
> 
> Hermes is a prophetic god too. His big thing were dreams of omen, but according to legend Apollo showed him the art of lithomancy (divination though the casting of pebbles) when the made up over the whole 'sorry I stole your sacred cow' thing.
> 
> Swans were sacred to Apollo, mostly because of them honoring his mother on Delos and some myths has his first chariot pulled by swans before he inherited the sun chariot.
> 
> Zeus' disguises for his exploits include a bull, a swan, an eagle, a golden shower, several husbands, a literal ant, and... Artemis. Yes. King of the gods, everybody.


	13. in the dead of night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Show us the truth of your divinity!"
> 
> There is one hat trick Tulio has left, one that would get him burned at the stake in Spain. This place is a little more lenient with necromancy. 
> 
> Or, there is many things Tulio can forget, but how to summon a shade is not one of them. And all Tzekel-Kan's chickens come home to roost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis the early start of Halloween season, everybody!

###  [Chapter 14](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121005/chapters/48602834)

### Chapter Text

"Do not question us, or we shall have to unleash our great and terrible power! And you don't want that!"

"Well, yes, we do!"

"...You do?"

_Dammit, Miguel!_

"Of course we do!" Tzekel-Kan waves avidly in Chief Tannabok's direction. The man rolls his eyes skyward. "Visit your wrath upon this nonbeliever! Show us the truth of your divinity!"

"Divinity," Tulio echoes dryly. "What do you want us to do, raise the dead or something!?"

The crowd goes deathly silent. Tulio bites his lip, but the words are out there. Oops, had he said that last part aloud?

"Your words," Miguel murmurs, as if this isn't all his fucking fault in the first place. "Not mine."

With all eyes on him, Tulio draws himself up, and arches a critical eyebrow at the high priest. "Well, Tzekel-Kan? Are you _really_ going to make us disturb the rest of your honored ancestors just to make a point?"

Tzekel-Kan hesitates for a moment, swallowing thickly. Tulio braces for apologetic groveling. But, as he turns the idea over in his head, the psycho actually seems tickled by the thought. "There have been elders I have sought the guidance of for a very long time, my lords. Even for me, the Jaguar God is most elusive, and grants me only snatches of wisdom from Xibalba. Perhaps you might... enlighten us, by parting the veil between our worlds."

Tulio refuses to mope, even as he catches the smoking volcano in the corner of his eye. "If any of your esteemed elders actually deign make an appearance," he says vaguely. He catches Chief Tannabok's eye, who at least seems appropriately terrified and doing his damnedest to hide it. "Perhaps one of your royal ancestors shall grace us tonight, chief."

"I... am content with waiting until my natural time to meet them again, my lord," he supplies diplomatically.

Tulio smirks. "Perhaps, chief, perhaps not. The spirits speak as they will." Or maybe not at all.

Hungry ghosts are hungry ghosts. No matter how decadent their afterlife may be, surely someone down there is craving a bit of mortal vitality. But his words are vague enough that the volcano stops simmering. He's only inviting spirits up, not dragging them in by force.

Miguel hums, glancing purposefully up at the setting sun. "Better get moving, shan't we? Those shades won't summon themselves."

Before so many witnesses, Tulio refrains from rolling his eyes. Miguel's role tonight will be standing around and blustering like he knows what the hell he's talking about. Him and the shades of the dead mix like oil and water.

At least necromancy isn't _that hard._ Theoretically speaking. It's not Tulio's tried in the last few centuries or so. Just because the Spanish Catholics fear the hell out of what they call black magic doesn't mean he's dabbled in it recently. Because that would mean getting burnt at the stake.

Funny how he's now depending on _success_ to get pushed into that volcano or a fate even worse. Fate's a fickle bitch that way.

* * *

Chel fully intends to return the stupid head to its body and then lie low until the heat dies down. She's still not sure what to do after that. Maybe she's just going to chance another run for it. Maybe it's worth staying around to see what other good things these 'gods' might grant. They already spared her life once, after all.

Her quiet anonymity does not last an hour. In Manoa's hysteria they have decided she, as the one obviously favored by these gods, must speak to them on her people's behalf. She is their favorite priestess. Their only priestess, even if her title is only inferred.

Because the gods have decided to prepare a nice little ritual for _welcoming the dead back to the mortal plane._ And most of their demands for such are humanly impossible to provide or just outright unknown to mortal ears.

With well-practiced confidence, Chel follows the desperate acolyte from the golden temple of the Dual Gods. Her heart pounds the entire sacred way from the temple down the road to Xibalba. Near the roaring waters, in the open soil, the gods are overseeing the digging of a shallow pit. She swallows, because that is exactly the right size for a grave, and clears her throat.

"Excuse me, my lords?"

Lord Miguel brightens. "Oh, it's you! The lovely young woman that received our vision and guided us here with tribute!"

"Yes, my lord," she says gamely. "That is me, the one called Chel."

The reminder isn't for her benefit, Chel thinks. Lord Tulio jerks, some clarity returning to his blue eyes as if just noticing her for the first time. Perhaps a part of him already walks with the dead in Xibalba.

"Hm?" he murmurs. "Yes, quite right."

"Unfortunately, Lord Tulio, everything is... not quite right, with the ceremony."

She braces for the smiting, but the two puzzled frowns sent her way are just as promising a prelude.

"How so?" Lord Tulio groans.

"The jugs of honey are doable, my lords, and being done, but Manoa's nursing mothers are a bit distressed about... the other part..."

Lord Tulio cocks his head. "Even if they're relying on cattle's milk to supplement their kids, that's still-"

"No, Tulio," Lord Miguel says, horrified realizing creeping across his face. "That's not what she means."

"W-What? _What!_ Ew, no!" The other god lurches back in ungodly disgust. "W-We're summon grown shades here, Chel, not infants! We want the milk of _livestock._ Goats, cows, whatever you have."

"Manoa has birds, my lords," Chel says flatly.

Both deflate. "So much for _our_ offering after," Lord Miguel mutters.

"I can try seeing if enough people can round up from nursing dogs to..." She trails off as their disgust only intensifies. "Would pulque suffice as a substitute, my lords? It's white like milk and _could_ be called the milk of the agave plant." If one was drunk enough upon it to be poetic.

Lord Tulio sighs. "Fine, fine. So I take it my order for a black ram and ewe is also impossible?"

"...Turkeys have black feathers, my lord." And are imported food from the north, with thankfully no sacred power attached to them, as is the case with most Manoan birds of the air.

"Sure, why not." Beneath his breath, he mutters, "It's not like we're already throwing over two thousand of precedent out the window anyway."

"Oh, think on the bright side, Tulio!" Lord Miguel chides him, smiling reassuringly at her. "Is there anything else we can do to help, Chel?"

"Barley is...?"

"A grain," Lord Miguel says, before Lord Tulio can keep ranting on about bread.

"Would white maize dust be acceptable, then?"

"Yes," the darker god deadpans. "So long as wine is also not an impossible request."

Two of Lady Paquini's acolytes arrive, huffing and puffing, with a whole casket. "Only the purest sort, my lords!"

Lord Tulio stares at the wine in utter bewilderment. Chel bites her cheek to keep from laughing.

* * *

By the time the moon rises, the pit is dug, and the offers in good order. Tzekel-Kan stands with his party of devoted attendants, as the aged priestesses of Lady Eupana do with their own. Chief Tannabok solemnly stands with the cult of the Sun God, who gave rise to his line, but always counts among the cthonic gods when he is called upon at night during his time among the dead. That is why Lord Munah's followers are there as well, for the Hero God follows his friend into the underworld every night. They stand a respectful distance from Lady Kama, for the Moon Goddess and her people always guard against the unwelcome demons of the night, even if she and the Sun God may only meet on moonless nights.

Beyond the priesthood of the subterranean gods that keep active cults, the sacred site around Xibalba is near deserted. Such an occasion is too sacred for every undeserving eye to sully. Most Manoans want nothing to do with disturbing the dead, not even to glimpse their loved ones. They have the good sense to stay inside with their shutters closed, armed with amulets and incense to keep the restless dead and the Lords of Xibalba at bay.

Chel, as only priestess of these gods, is granted the... spot of honor closest to them. Excepting the two turkeys gobbling anxiously to each other. Lord Miguel holds a burning torch high and bright. It is the only light permitted aside from the moon and stars. The souls of Xibalba dwell in a land without the moon or sun. That is why the ritual must be at night, when conditions in the world above most closely match those of the one below.

Lord Miguel has been chanting since sundown. His tongue is one known only to gods. _"Diactorus, angelus macaron, clepsiphron, masterius, euscopus pompaeus..."_

Lord Tulio inhales deeply, taking strength from him. Some of the tight tension eases from his shoulders. "That's enough."

The other god falls silent. Then his companion speaks, deep and authoritative. His tongue is Manoan, but archaically so, the old sort of votive vows not heard outside the deepest sanctums. It's half-prayer, half-spell, and all song, as he coaxes up the spirits from their darkest depths. Chel, entranced, catches her head bobbing in time and guiltily stops. No one pays her any mind.

When a low mist begins to swirl, perhaps only from the cold night air and Xibalba's churning waters, Lord Tulio upends the jug of honey and pulque into the pit.

Then, the living are no longer alone.

Below the crackle of the torchlight, a moan begins, low and tortured. It grows louder, and multiplies by the dozens, as the dead climb forth from Xibalba.

Of course no soul at peace is leaving eternal paradise behind. These are the souls of Lady Itzli, the Snake Goddess. The venom that burned through them in life burns them still. They crawl forward on the charred remnants of hands and knees, aching for a balm to soothe their ever-burning skin. Yet even the crackle of Lord Miguel's torch leaves them fearful of fire. They remain clustered at the edge of the altar over Xibalba, groaning piteously.

Chel can't rip her eyes away. She searches for one missing his leg, for the healers removed her grandfather's leg in a vain attempt to spare his life. She trembles, unsure if he means to run for them or for the jungle.

Something warm and solid bumps against her. She nearly screams, but it is only Lord Altivo. He is assurance against her side, calm and steady. So Chel twines her fingers into his mane and does his best to steady her breathing.

Never faltering in his entreaties, Lord Tulio casts the tribute of wine. Thick and red as blood, it summons the souls of the Bat God. They wheeze brokenly, robbed of the blood in their veins and air in their lungs, skin stretched taut over bone. Lord Tzinacon laid claim to her grandmother when his night air stole the breath from her lungs. Chel nearly weeps in relief when she cannot sight her face among them.

The empty souls are pale and listless, no matter how much they long for the wine they think their missing blood. Lord Miguel gently waves his torch in their direction and they lurch to a halt. They have dwelt in the night air too long to tolerate the light.

Thirdly Lord Tulio offers the jug of pure water. The sloshing opens the way for the water-logged corpses claimed by the Caiman Goddess. Their pale, bloated bodies clamber over those shades who came before, seeping rancid water in their wake. More than one priest gags upon their stench. For Chel, the wet rot is drowned out by Lord Altivo, who smells of the wind and rain.

"Not yet," Lord Tulio says firmly. He sprinkles white maize dust over the frothing pit, as Lord Miguel and his burning warmth press even the drowned souls back. "We have a vow to keep." From his belt he pulls a knife unlike what Chel has ever seen before. It gleams smooth and black. He holds out his hand, and one turkey struts fearlessly to his side.

Dark blue eyes sweep over the crowd, who murmur prayers beneath their breath and huddle like frightened birds. "I am he of the gateway, the lord of the boundaries. The way only part for those who have an ill word to speak against the chief of this land."

Chel's breath hitches in horror. Tzekel-Kan bares his teeth in an anxious, triumphant snarl. Chief Tannabok clenches his fists and stands unwavering against the eyes of the damned.

"I am the keen-sighted and the slayer of beasts," Lord Tulio repeats. He brings his knife down, and the turkey's blood flows red and ripe to the pit below. "Those who have legitimate grievance against the chief of this land, come take my offering."

The night is pierced by a single shriek, the cacophony of thousands. They swarm out of Xibalba like locusts, bones gleaming in the dark.

These are not the dead of Lady Iztaya, wrapped in color and welcomed into the warmth of her hall. These who are the hollow souls, with no light in their hearts, only endless hunger. They stampede over those taken by the Lords of Xibalba, for they have consumed themselves.

For a moment, the chill of the grave grips her heart. But then Lord Miguel raises his torch, the world flaring bright as dawn. "No!" he snarls, spinning the fire in a vengeful halo as he rounds upon them. "I am the hunter who stands before the entrance. You have no right to vengeance here!"

"You have no _place_ here!" Lord Tulio growls in dark agreement. He unsheathes the golden sword suddenly at his side. His strike cleaves through bone, leaving only ash and smoke behind.

Chel's clenched fists shake in hopeless rage. Lord Altivo snorts and stamps a hoof, but stands firm behind her. Even this night Lady Kama shines high and bright. The restless dead have no place here, and so are easily cast back into the depths by the two gods of gold and light before them. With one last sneer Miguel punts the final skull into oblivion.

"I am so glad to be wearing shoes," he mutters.

"And this is why I gave up summoning the dead," Lord Tulio mutters. "Like, over a thousand years ago. Because, _ew."_

"It was hubris to even demand it," Chel mumbles, glaring accusingly at Tzekal-Kan. With the ghouls gone the lost souls of the Lords of Xibalba continue to mourn their agony, disturbed to prove some petty point.

"Yes," Lord Miguel intones heavily. "It was."

Chel blinks. "I- I didn't mean to say that aloud, my lord."

"Yes you did," he declares primly, before passing her his torch.

Chel tries to flinch. What should be a heavy, burning weight is light as a feather in her hands. Even the sparks that dance off only kiss her skin with a warmth sweet as summer. In her hand the radiance is softer, nowhere near as harsh and accusatory. With longing moans the dead creep closer, toward her light and her life, but none dare Lord Tulio's golden blade.

"One more time," the god calls dryly, "anyone with a _legitimate_ grievance against your current chief?" More than one shade turns to mutter to each other and shrug back. "Yeah, I thought so."

Tzekel-Kan splutters in disbelief. "I-"

The gaze of the gods fall upon him. Inch by inch, even Chima and the rest of his acolytes scoot away, closer to the warmth of Chel's torchlight.

Lord Miguel's face twists somewhere between smirk and snarl. "Now, our most _favored speaker_ , what was it you were saying again?"

"It is hubris," Chel announces, loud and clear, her voice drowning over Tzekel-Kan's furious protest. "Hubris to _demand_ the gods visit their wrath upon their own people, to _demand_ they raise the dead to simply prove a petty point."

"It is, isn't it?" Lord Tulio hisses, with dark glee. He turns back to the shades, raising his voice to them. "I know you're hungry and thirsty and suffering eternal torment. I promise you all your fair share of my tribute, for I am the giver of good things, but please... First dibs to those who have something to say about dear Tzekel-Kan."

He brings his knife down, and the second turkey's life blood flows hot and accusing.

The whispers of the shades present are drowned out by the mournful, furious screams of those condemned to the Jaguar God. They rise up by the hundreds, the victims of war and sacrifice and Balam Qoxtok's simple hunger for those souls not his. They come missing limbs and weeping wounds, half-devoured and still seething in fury. Most can scarcely move, so broken are they, but the other souls become a tide to bear them onward.

Lord Tulio lowers their blade, and the brilliance around Lord Miguel dims even further, to let them through.

Chel falls to her knees, flame guttering low before flaring all the brighter, as the first soul slumps over the pit. He drinks long and hard, for the rest wait their turn.

_"Yeah,"_ rasps the shade of her big brother. He's still missing the fingers Tzekel-Kan took from him, with a sacrificial knife through his heat and chunks of flesh the Jaguar God had torn from him. _"He tried to send my baby sister to **this.** "_

One by one, the dead come, and hurl their condemnations at Tzekel-Kan's feet. They are old and young, male and female, almost all Chel's people than the gold-eared citizens of Manoa.

"L-Lies," the high priest stammers vehemently. "Spineless, slippery-"

_"Puh!"_ spits the last soul. Her ragged, bloodstained garb still resembles Tzekel-Kan's own. _"Ambitious little shit you were, Tzekel. Couldn't even see to your own damned priestess into the next world properly while celebrating your new promotion."_

Chel lets out a breath. The gods have been scrupulous to not directly name the living, to put their names into the mouths of shades. Except of course for Tzekel-Kan, as the dead deliver their judgement.

"The Obsidian Lord-"

_"Conquers all,"_ Kina, the tyrannical old bitch, finishes flatly. _"Even those who speak for him, when we cease to be use to him. And you glutted him on blood and fear, Tzekel-Kan, far more than he ever deserved. He's hungers now more than ever, for your indulgence."_ She bares her teeth in a savage smile. _"Little apprentice, guess whose blood he thirsts for most, for daring speak to often in his name?"_

"Good chief," Lord Miguel breaks in delicately. "Perhaps it is time for you and the your priests to be leaving now."

"O-Of course, my lord," the man says after scarcely missing a beat. Foot by foot, the living creep away, and leave the forsaken to their fate. "...Shall we prepare your accommodations for the night?"

The god hums. "Tomorrow, perhaps."

With final bows, the mortals turn their backs upon the dead, and leave the gateway of Xibalba behind. Lord Altivo gallops past them, breezing away into the dark. His wind carries the stories of tonight and shall spread them far and wide.

"Don't you want to go with them?" Miguel murmurs to her.

Chel instead turns to Xaya. He carefully helps the souls of their dad and all three of their aunts down to drink their share from the pit. It does not fully heal the wounds from their souls, but returns some color and semblance of strength. "Nah. I think I'm good here."

Miguel at her side, she bends to help her family up. Beneath the light of her torch, and Miguel's healing touch, the last of their wounds fade away as their souls once more stand whole and happy. For now Chel can accept only the briefest of hugs and murmured words. There are so many others awaiting their turn.

Not all seek healing. Kima and those most bitter in their vengeance turn black eyes on Tzekel-Kan. Golden blade raised high, Tulio stalks forth to deliver their sentence. The high priest's cries are drowned out by the happy sobs of those souls reunited after years of torment, and soon forgotten altogether.

When it is done, the last souls restored and the last bits of Tzekel-Kan disdainfully thrown back into Xibalba, the gods consider their charges.

_"Well?"_ pipes up the soul of one impatient preteen. _"Now what?"_

"Lady Eupana?" Chel suggests, smiling wryly as the disbelieving dead gape to her. "It's Grandmother Turtle. The more, the merrier."

"I am Tulio, the shepherd of souls," Tulio offers, taking a step east toward Xibalba's roaring waters to show there is nothing more to fear. "I can take you there."

"I'll light the way," Chel soothes, for so many still cower at the thought of plunging into the dark. "And make sure we pick up every last soul between the First House and the Ninth who wants." Starting with her grandfather. Her gut says he must be with Lady Iztaya, with the good fortune to be feasting in her halls but not the courage to risk the Jaguar God's jungle.

Maybe her grandma already made it to paradise. Maybe she languishes with her mom in the black halls of the Lord of Oblivion. Only one way to find out.

Kima scoffs. _"I just dismembered the apprentice I enabled to reign in bloody terror. I am not sitting for the rest of eternity with that upon my soul."_

Miguel's face twists in thought. He takes one tentative step west, glowing with faint promise against the dark unknown. "I am Miguel, who is in both horizons. I can lead you to wash away the weight of the past and start anew."

Some spirits, old and bitter, murmur. It is Kima who flatly asks, _"Will we find happiness there?"_

The god shrugs. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I offer only a beginning, and the hope for something better."

With murmurs, some souls move to follow him. Chel wishes them all the best. She anxiously turns to her own family, who inch only closer to her side.

"What?" she snarks at Xaya. "A new life isn't enough for you?"

_"Nah,"_ her brother says. He smirks at her burning torch. _"I'd rather find mom, grandma, and grandpa. And see you stick that thing into Balam Qoxtok's eye."_

_"And burn it out,"_  Aunt Acheli mutters.  _"Fair is fair."_

Chel's dad sighs. _"Little sister, that is not fair. Fair would be a thousand eyes burnt out and a thousand throats slit open."_

_"And a pelt for Grandmother Turtle's hall,"_  Aunt Ameya chimes in.

Chel grins. "Why not both?"

Tulio smirks. "That can be arranged."

He takes his hand in hers, and together they lead an army of souls unto peace everlasting.

The Lords of Xibalba bellow at their coming. And scream when they actually make it to their houses, one by one.

Well, most of them. The Black Lord's rotting souls are content to pass on naturally, when they consider themselves purified for Lady Iztaya's pristine halls. The Skeleton Goddess herself, grateful they took care of her pest problem, is glad to let some skeletal souls free from her eternal feast. Including Grandpa Koli, dearly missed.

The Jaguar God finds nowhere to hide, from the fallen armies come to seek their vengeance.

* * *

The dawning brings a rainbow cloud of hummingbirds and butterflies from Xibalba. For fleeting moments they rest in gardens and the windowsills of loved ones, to bid them goodbye. Then as one they fly into the west, where the last of the evening darkness is fading, to whatever new beginnings may await them there. Lord Miguel, who strides from the west in weary satisfaction, offers no answers. Nor do the two gods that ascend alone from the depths of Xibalba.

Chief Tannabok, who has prepared the great temple, has only two thrones waiting. Lady Chel, garbed in a black jaguar pelt with its claws as her crown, strides past her gods to claim her eat. The gods bicker for a moment over who gets the honor of sitting in the other's lap, before settling together into the second.

Tulio is the shepherd of souls and Lord of Endings, who guides spirits to peace everlasting or leaves them for their own hungers or the Lords of Xibalba to claim. Miguel is the holder of the horizon and Lord of Beginnings, who leads the dead to whatever new beginnings may exist among the living.

Almost always they defer to the rulings of the Lady Judge, who knows the human heart and all its darkness best. She was once mortal herself, knows their pains and their imperfections, for such are her own. She is a merciful goddess, and only extremely rarely are her punishments eternal.

Even Tzekel-Kan gets his reprieve, eventually.

Anyone can be a better soul, when their chance comes after one hundred consecutive lifetimes as a small, tasty rodent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those fans of the Odyssey out there, this is a riff of the ritual Circe gives to Odysseus to summon the shade of Tiresias. The spirits of the Greek underworld were gray and listless for the most part. Necromancy temporarily restored them some vitality, usually to pass on prophecy or final advice to loved ones. Hermes, as shepherd of souls and god of boundaries, was invoked.
> 
> Catholic Spain never lost its fear of black magic. To a lesser degree the channeling of spirits was an art that quietly continued for a very, very long time. And had a tendency to revitalize whenever the learned class regained an interest in the occult, as happened in the Renaissance. Tulio of course was never dumb to try pulling one off, because there is conning people and flat-out asking to be burnt at the stake.
> 
> Miguel's chanting are just Hermes' Greek epithets: guide, messenger of the blessed, dissembler, searcher, watchful shepherd. Every other fancy nickname here are also transliterations of legitimate Greek epithets. Except for Miguel's last one - there were a thousand epithets for addressing Ra-Horus, who died each night and rose reborn with the dawn. Due to syncretism and the moderate popularity Horus found in later Greco-Roman cults Miguel has at least partial claim to the name :p
> 
> Speaking of names, a lot of cultures have had very important beliefs about names, such as not inviting in evil by calling it by a euphemism (how the Furies became the Kindly Ones), or just not naming names while spirits of the restless dead might be lurking about to cause misfortune.
> 
> Originally this one-shot was largely about Tzekel-Kan's desire to summon bloody vengeance on Tannabok only bringing his own very pissed off mentor back, who proceeds to rip him a new one for what he did to the Jaguar God's cult and the city at large. That idea... evolved. A lot.


	14. heathen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all their self-righteousness, Cortes and his men sailed for the New World with evil in their hearts. And evil aboard.
> 
> ...For two demons, it's a case of mistaken identity gone horribly right.

"Tons of gold for you, hey! Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of gold for we, hey!"

Gold is good, of course, it always is. But their triumphant crowing has the added benefit of riling up their audience further. Envy and greed seep from their pile of winnings. Hell, their dance draws in the slothful looking for an excuse to dally and _especially_ the lustful. Tulio sends the most promising of them his brightest grin. He knows his face a tempting one, and milks it for all its worth.

Sweetest of all, however, is the building wrath of a man about to lose it all. "One more roll!" the sailor snarls.

"Uh, guys, you're broke!" Tulio sneers. "You got nothin' to bet with!"

Pride proves the sailor's undoing as he at last coughs up his most precious possession. It's a map, a yellowed piece of paper that claims to lead all the way to El Dorado. Humans are dumb. But if this is the best the sailor has, then Tulio's taking it all the same.

Miguel's eyes, however, shine with earnest excitement. "El Dorado, the city of gold. This could be our destiny, our fate."

Tulio considers this. Gold brings out the worst in mortals and the amount here is simply _legendary._ "Sure," he allows. "Why not?" Even if El Dorado is fantasy, people have killed themselves for fables before.

Of course they agree to the gamble, and the sailor's demand to use his own dice. They pretend to be desperate. Miguel hams it up on his lute, sidling close to the prettiest girl in the crowd. She leans eagerly in to his advance before her husband tears away, and two flames are kindled in their hearts. Tulio deliberately locks eyes with an interested blonde, before holding out his dice to the woman _next to her_ for a good luck kiss. The sweet tang of jealousy is ruined by the second woman not being that into him, and walking away instead.

Tulio smugly rolls a seven. The fun part comes in 'dropping' his loaded dice.

A full-on fight breaks out in the street, armed guards grappling with illicit gamblers, and tripping over the greedy bastards lunging for the abandoned gold. Safely on the rooftops, Miguel and Tulio stop to breathe in that sweet, sweet blood lust.

"Maybe we should have brought it with us," Miguel muses. "Would've festered some mighty resent onboard."

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Little voice, Miguel, that keeps you from doing stupid things. We're not trying to make the bastards sink themselves before we even reach the other side."

"Yeah," Miguel sighs, before tucking the stupid map into his sleeve. He pouts at his partner's look. "What? We might actually find it!"

"What matters is that the Spaniards find it," Tulio states flatly. "And start sinning themselves dead over it."

Miguel slumps before the pretty bride from earlier catches his eye. With a purr he leans over the roof. Tulio heaves a beleaguered sigh, and pulls him back. "B-But-"

"We have a boat to catch," Tulio reminds him. His partner turns to give him the _face,_ which only enrages him further. "Not with the face, you idiot!"

Miguel starts. Scales melt back into human skin as his nose reasserts itself. He pushes two fingers into the tips of his fangs, physically pushing them back until they appear only slightly too-long canines. In broad daylight the vertical pupils of his eyes are too thin to be anything but serpentine, but the fringe of his hair draws attention away. He has had centuries to master speaking and singing with a forked tongue without ever showing it.

"Well," he sniffs, "maybe you should fix your shoes."

Tulio curses and instinctively tries to shift both his feet. But humans always believe themselves canny enough to spot evil incarnate. One hoof obediently shifts back into a perfect human foot. The other stubbornly remains a cloven hoof. He angrily jams it back into the shoe and the brace that holds it firm, fixing the stocking that hides black fur. It is only stubble, because of course he shaves it down and deals with the itch.

"How are the horns?" he mutters, compulsively patting his hairline.

"What horns?" Miguel asks innocently, because they are two little buds buried deep beneath jet-black hair.

Tulio scowls. He hates mirrors and the horizontal goat pupils that peer out from human blue. It still grates him no transformation is perfect, but it's an indignity they learned to shoulder a long time ago, when they sold themselves out to save their own skins. Demons play by different rules than g-... what they were before, but at least they're still alive to play.

"Come on," he huffs. "Our destiny awaits."

Cortes champions the pure New World, one where only the righteous are allowed to settle. They do for gold and glory, all in God's name. Two of the three are most definitely there.

Tulio feels no hesitance in forsaking Spain to pollute that New World instead. This land has only corrupted and nearly killed Miguel and himself. It has allowed them to feed on the evils in the hearts of men, especially those they encourage, rather than cling to dying wells of power and fade away forever.

Cortes pays two more scrawny crewmen no mind. He sees what he wants to see, and believes every man in his expedition to be obedient.

Tulio and Miguel make fast friends among the sailors. They are skilled at making men see only their smiles and hear only affable chatter, without ever truly seeing inhuman eyes or telltale marks. Who can seek evil in a man named _Miguel,_ like the holy archangel himself?

It is fortunate Spain considers that archangel's true name to be _Micachel,_ for Latin is still held up as the tongue of the Church. _Miguel_ is of the dirty common vernacular, far enough from the formal Latin to not make a demon's tongue burned whenever it is uttered.

* * *

Altivo knows demons. Right after (or maybe before, because this was millennia ago) humanity dreamed up divine personifications that can be entreated with, they made malevolent entities. Over the centuries he's run into a lot. He's carried kings and caliphs, the sort who attract the worst in humanity's collective heart. Upon him they rode, sewing battles to reap wars.

The two beings skulking aboard are definitely demons. They seduce sailors in the hold while setting their dalliances up against each other. One leaves venereal diseases in his wake, those of the minor, itchy sort. They pilfer from the rations and whisper for others to do the same, ratcheting up Cortes' paranoia. Worst is Cortes himself, who was plenty arrogant to begin with. The highest authority on the ship, the power has definitely gone to his head. That's why is Altivo is allowed the freedom of the deck, to boast of his master's authority, while also forced to suffer half-rations.

At least they aren't the _asshole_ kind of demon, those dreamed up to only torment humanity.

"Poor bastard," the goat-eyed one mutters where he think Altivo can't hear. "He survived the Greeks and the Romans, to be reduced to a _horse."_

 _Poor bastards,_ the horse thinks back. _The last of the Greeks and the Romans, reduced to petty evils.  
_

They only faintly smell of brimstone, the loosest of ties to the Christian Hell. Their scent is instead sex and the wild wood, the heady incense of the old altars. Not _bad_ smells, just heathen.

But Altivo won't say anything if they weren't. Miguel bribes him with apples, stolen tribute all the sweeter, and so the horse doesn't pull attention to their inhuman eyes the horns and scales they keep hidden beneath their hair and clothes. They're passengers by circumstance. When they disembark Altivo will go off to conquer this land and plow its fields until he is inevitably rendered obsolete. The demons will follow in his wake to glut themselves upon the evils there, if not pave the way for him.

First, however, comes the storm. The stinging rains whip across the deck and the waves hurl up sturdy galleons like toy boats. One might think it God's wrath, to scour the evils of the Old World before they can ever reach the New, but Altivo isn't so presumptuous. If there is a power in these seas and the skies, so far away from human hearts, then it is an alien power borne of the empty depths.

Not that a mundane storm stops him from being a mundane horse. Altivo's hooves slide on the slick deck. When the ship heaves upward, he has nothing to stop himself from toppling over. Whatever he was before, he is now a horse, drowning in the sea.

"Altivo, I'm coming!" cries a voice from above.

_"Have you lost your mind!"_

There is chaos aboard the deck, as the men fighting for their lives lose a mutiny beneath their noses. A plundered longboat falls into the water, it and is thieves quickly tipped over by the swell.

What follows is a blur. Altivo feels a rope loop beneath his belly before the world spins. When he comes back to himself he's sitting in a boat, a little wooden coffin bobbing on a a ruthless sea, and the sturdy galleons drifting ever further away.

"Tulio!" Miguel cries in delight. "It worked!"

"A horse," groans the goat-eyed demon. "You threw yourself overboard  _for a horse."_

"He's more than that!" Miguel asserts indignantly. "Aren't you, old boy?"

Altivo snorts.

"Some demon you are," Tulio mutters.

"Some demon _you_ are," Miguel counters smugly. "You threw yourself overboard for _another demon._ Not exactly very self-serving of you, is it?"

Altivo glumly leans his head against the prow as they fall into bickering like an old married couple. This is his hell, and he is living it.

After some time, Miguel's teeth begin to chatter. Without human eyes around to care he's dropped his disguise. Brownish-yellow scales cover vast swathes of his skin, including his serpentine face. He huddles miserably into himself, for he is a cold-blooded being meant to bask in hellfire. Or sunlight, at the very least.

Tulio sighs. "Come here." He huddles his half-goat warmth against the other demon, lending him body heat and he wraps a sailcloth around them to ward off the worst of the rain and wind.

Altivo nickers pointedly.

"No," grinds out the goat demon.

"T-T-Tulio," Miguel chatters sternly.

That is how Altivo gets a sailcloth thrown himself, two miserable demons huddling against him for body warmth. He rolls his eyes against their smell and hunkers down to sleep. At least one of them should. Tulio certainly isn't, as he watches his shivering partner, and refuses to let him drift off while still so freezing.

The last thing this boat needs is a dead demon, especially the one Altivo actually likes.

* * *

"As the prophecies foretold, the time of judgement is now!"

Tulio's eye twitches. He and Miguel had tightened their disguises to appear as convincingly human as they can. Still the people of this city know them for what they are, and the doom they bring with them. Small wonder that volcano is smoking ominously.

"Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

The two demons whip around for the wrathful deities and their impending smiting. There is only empty space behind them.

Miguel pales. Scales creep at his hairline, but a sharp elbow jib to the ribs cuts that crap off. The last thing Tulio needs is his idiot of a partner blaring their deformities for all to see.

The high priest introduces himself as Tzekel-Kan, a delightful bundle of wrath, envy, and arrogance wrapped up by self-righteousness. Tulio's nostrils reflexively flare at a soul _bursting_ with potential. By contrast Chief Tannabok is a gentle and pious man, haunted only by his concern for his own high priest and now the unknown beings before him. In him there are no areas to exploit.

"What names may we call you?"

Tulio freezes. What if he just gives the answer he _wants_ to give and just turns the clock back a thousand years?

"I am Miguel," his partner answers in earnest confusion, drilled into him by a millennium of necessity.

Tulio bites back his frustrated snarl. The selfish majority of his being urges him to abandon the demon to his fate, to reclaim his own glories. Instead, with only the slightest note of bitter resignation, he supplies, "And I am Tulio."

Miguel shifts as if to dismount Altivo, before thinking better of it. A proud distance does them good right now. The last thing they need are people gazing into their own inhuman eyes. "And we are called... Bright and Many-Turning!"

Not lies, even if Miguel now blazes with hellfire and Tulio's epithet is one of his better euphemisms.

"Your arrival has been greatly anticipated."

Tulio's gaze flicks to the two very human god astride the horse-headed serpent. _Great. Let's not only get blasted as false idols, but for identity theft!_

"Ah-hah!" Tzekel-Kan triumphantly snatches the woman from earlier as she tries ducking behind Altivo. "I see you've caught this temple-robbing thief!"

The woman heroically insists she is not a thief, only guided by the gods to bring them tribute and guide them here. It's the most baldfaced lie Tulio's heard in centuries. He likes her immediately. Even if this shit storm is all her fault for running into them. And she made him shudder by addressing him as 'lord.'

"Release her," he says in his smoothest voice, "don't you think?"

Tzekel-Kan grudgingly does without ever realizing the 'order' was framed only as a polite request, and never confirming the truth of the lie. Ordered to return the stolen tribute its rightful place, the thief smartly fast-walks away.

For a heartbeat, the situation is back under control. Then Chief Tannabok earnestly asks, "My lords, why now do you choose to visit us?"

Tzekel-Kan angrily snaps at his chief one does not question the gods. It is the distraction that spares the city from noticing how two demands instinctively twitch at the 'l-word.' Just because the true Name is not directly invoked doesn't stop them from shivering at the possibility.

"That's right," Miguel interjects hotly. An elbow to the ribs makes him reconsider the fuming volcano. "One does not question the gods and their unknowable grace!"

The volcano stops smoking. Tulio bites back an impressed whistle.

"That's right!" Tzekel-Kan cries in excitement. "Visit your wrath upon this nonbeliever! Show us the truth of your divinity!"

And now Tulio clamps down on the voice that will plunge this city into panic, because he is _not_ getting trampled to death by a hysterical mob like more than one member of his extended family. Miguel's pointed glare makes Altivo snort pointedly as the temperature around them climbs.

"We are but guests in your good city," he hisses as the serpent slips through. "It would be extremely rude for us to, say... loose a plague, because people got a bit too carried away."

"It would indeed, my lords!" Chief Tannabok interrupts pointedly. "Please, might I show you to your temple?"

Once more the demons brace for their smiting, or at least a warning rumble of thunder at the thought of the profane entering a sacred space. They cautiously allow themselves to be led up the steps of the tallest temple. Atop Altivo, of course. Tulio's stupid cloven hoof makes him drag one foot in a limp when it's hidden in the shoe. The last thing they need to find out is if this city allows for imperfect deities like Vulcan, or see if as proof of their falsehood.

As they near the zenith Tulio braces for the warning bite of holy power, the same that drives them from mosques and churches. There is nothing but gentle emptiness to greet them, a temple yet awaiting formal consecration.

"My lords," Tzekel-Kan speaks up eagerly. "To commemorate your arrival I propose a reverent ceremony at dawn."

"Ah," the chief counters. "Then perhaps I could prepare you a glorious feast for tonight."

Tulio and Miguel consider how far they want to push the hospitality of their host. Their greed soon settles for, "Both. Both is good."

They hold some semblance of poise until the mortals descend out of sight. Miguel slumps in disbelief. "Tulio. Tulio, they actually believe we're... Well, you know."

"Yeah," he agrees sourly. "I know. Better than the alternative, right?"

When the shock wears off they giggle hysteria at the absurdity of it. Tulio and Miguel, mighty and powerful-

"Hello."

With a suppressed yelp of surprise Tulio draws himself up firmly. "Depart, mortal, before we strike you dead for the impunity!"

"That's a little harsh, isn't it?" Miguel whines. "She's just a thief and a liar. Surely we could get away with cutting off a hand and her tongue, or maybe just one and-"

"Miguel!" Tulio hisses. "Stop undermining me in front of the thief."

The woman hesitates. Pride wars with uncertainty, before she smirks and crosses her arms. "Claiming to be a priestess is nothing when compared to lying about divinity."

"L-Lying," Miguel sputters, with a wide, manic smile. "Who said anything about-"

Tulio kicks out of his shoes, stalking forward on two cloven hooves. His stumps sprout from his hairline into proud, curling ram's horns. The thief's jaw drops in silent horror, as she looks into his eyes and truly beholds their horizontal pupils. She tries to run, but stumbles and falls prone upon their back, like that fateful encounter this morning.

Miguel lunges out like a striking serpent, snatching his arm as his own disguise falls away. Tulio whirls furiously on him, but his partner stares fearlessly back, fangs bared. "Oh, come on! Y-You can't just-"

"She deserves it, doesn't she?" he rumbles back. "She's..." Tulio glares down at the woman, who now slumps in full submission. He wrinkles his nose and steps back in disgust. "Oh, _great,_ and now she's praying to..."

He expects of a wave of her resolve to force him or summon a true guardian deity. But the prayer is... stumbled apologies. Mostly about how stupid it was to take that stupid head from its stupid body. And running without looking where was going. And lying before divinity, but most especially heaping that sin upon the gods themselves.

"What?" Tulio says dumbly.

Miguel glares at him, before kneeling down to the woman's side. "Are you all right?"

Chel blinks back tears enough to gape at him in disbelief. "I-I'm about to be _smote,_ my lord."

"Oh, no!" the demon gasps softly, as if his 'coaxing sick kittens' voice does anything about his fangs or his noseless face. "It's all right, really!" He reaches out with a clawed hand, and the thief only flinches away. "W-W-We, um-"

"We aren't exactly in a position to judge, if you know what I mean," Tulio finishes flatly.

The woman furrows her brow up at him. "I-I don't, my lord. Really."

He taps a horn for emphasis. And groans at her utter bewilderment. _"Really?_ What are you looking at, exactly?"

"A snake god and..." Her gaze flicks from Tulio to a bewildered Altivo. "Two deer gods?"

"Goat and horse!" Miguel corrects dutifully, while his partner splutters.

"Are you kid-"

Tulio can get no more out before Miguel slaps a hand over his mouth. Despite his fangs, the demon offers a winning smile. "Lord Tulio is the patron of thieves _and_ liars, you know."

"Miguel," he groans.

"Well, aren't you?"

"I am- Was! I was, but-"

"And I protect those who need it," Miguel interjects gallantly. "So, what can we call you?"

A thousand emotions pass over the thief's face before she accepts his hand. "Chel, my lord. Call me Chel." When Miguel helps her stand, her eyes flick to Tulio and his abandoned shoes. "Would more suitable clothing please you, Lord Tulio?"

"It would," he sighs.

Chel rushes out and returns with what look loose bolts of cloth. "Put these on!"

Miguel promptly peels off his shirt. Altivo snorts and prances dramatically out. As always, Tulio stops to marvel the beautiful constellation of brown and yellow scales against human skin. He is not the only admirer.

"Sorry, my lords," Chel says, even as she takes one final look at Tulio's arms. "Turning around now."

"Are you sure?" Miguel demurs. "We would really... appreciate a hand or two."

Tulio rolls his eyes, wrestling in vain with fastening the knot around his stupid hip wrap. "Miguel, when _I_ tell you give it a rest, you give it a rest." He snarls when his knot once more comes undone. "Oh, son of a-"

"I'm on it, Lord Tulio," Chel says, tying a perfect knot in seconds. Her hands linger on his waistline. "You know, 'my only wish is to serve the gods.'"

Miguel purrs. "Oh, really?"

"Later," Tulio states flatly. "When we don't have a city breathing down our necks."

With only the deep blue hip wrap and simple golden jewelry to cover him, Tulio considers the bare goat legs he last openly displayed a millennium ago. Without the need after weeks stranded at sea and then blundering through jungle the black fur hangs black and shaggy. After a thought he undoes his hair tie, to let the black waves loose.

"Intriguing," Miguel hums. "Are you going to grow out the beard again?"

Tulio rolls his eyes, fondly stroking Miguel's scruff. "Please, you have enough hair for the both of us." His glaze thoughtfully flicks to Chel's loose locks. "Three of us."

Their priestess grins, bows, and ducks out to announce their coming.

"Think they're gonna buy it?" Tulio mutters anxiously to Miguel.

His partner laughs, fangs flashing. "Please, Tulio. We're _the gods."_

Tulio gets no further out, before his laughing partner drags him out before their adoring crowd.

* * *

"Good morning, my-"

Annoyance, hot and red, bubbles through Tulio's hazy layers of sleep. He throws up his head only long enough to roar, **_"GO AWAY!"_**

The shout that earned him one of his first names dashes the mortal minds to pieces. With frightened shrieks they race away, leaving the unfortunate scent of their fear behind them. Gross.

Tulio falls back into bliss. And groans one half of it promptly rolls away. "Good morning!" Miguel cries gleefully, to the tortured groans of the two hungover souls who are not, and will never be, morning people.

"Go away," Chel grumbles into Tulio's chest. "Or go back to sleep."

"Here," Miguel murmurs, pressing kisses to their heads. "Does that feel better?"

Tulio grins as waves of love and healing magic wash away the hangover. "Yeah, it actually does." Then he cracks open one suspicious eye. "When's the last time you healed _anything?"_

"Huh," Miguel muses, unaware of his partner now ogling him. "Not since, you know, the whole 'swallow our pride and take our heathen vengeance' decision made a thousand years and..." He trails off in what Tulio is recognition of why those two things should not be adding up, only to cock his head instead. "Why are staring at me like that?"

"Feeling a bit green around the gills today?" he asks archly.

Miguel rolls back the curtain, letting the first streaks of dawn spill into the room. It only emphasizes the emerald shine of his scales, the dull browns and yellows now relegated to the edges where they melt into his human flesh. He grins. "I like it."

"It's pretty," Chel observes blearily. Her clothing torn to bits in the frenzy of last night, she sits up heedless of her nudity. "And it brings out the green in your eyes."

Miguel beams at the compliment. "Thank you, Chel! And you look, um..." He sheepishly conjures a rich red dress from thin air. She accepts it gracefully. "Queenly. Ravishing. Divine, even! Like..." Serpentine pupils dilate, as Miguel's gaze goes very far away. He trails off with a small, "Oh. _Oh."_

"What did you do this time?" Tulio grits out.

"What _we_ did." Miguel looks Chel in the eye. "Um, do you have any idea what happened the third cup of wine?"

"Yes," she says slowly. "I may have grabbed Tulio by the horn and you by the hand and started..." She buries her head in her hands. "Before the whole damned city."

"Which may have given them... certain expectations of our relationship."

Tulio fearfully inspects Chel. In the dawn she looks even more incredible than when they first ran into each other, but not in a succubus sort of way. "Like what?"

"Apotheosis," Miguel diagnoses gravely. His partners ogle each other.

"Miguel," Tulio breaks in, "we're not-"

"Here we are," he says firmly. "Because that's what Manoa believes us to be."

Chel side-eyes them. "What were you before Manoa?"

"Demons," Tulio says flatly.

She looks unimpressed. "Your very first act in this city was to save my life."

"And look where that got us!" At her glower, he sighs and explains, "Way, _way_ back we were gods from across the eastern sea. Until our people stopped believing gods for... God." He braces for a bolt of pain, and slumps when nothing comes. This is a land yet untouched by monotheism, and God has no power here. "We had a choice between dying and not dying, so we took our last best chance."

"It's not like we were the best people before that," Miguel points out.

"...Yeah," he sighs. "That probably helped."

Chel stares them both down. "What did you do to Tzekel-Kan and his acolytes?"

Tulio frowns back. "Panic them, that's all. I used to just spook people that startled me awake so they'd run away and leave me alone. It would wear off. Eventually." Since his fall, however...

Miguel heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I'll go patch them up."

Chel's eyes darken. "How crazy does your panic make them?"

"Out of their wits. Works on men the same way it works on wild animals."

"Then leave Tzekel-Kan," she declares. "Bastard deserves it, considering he was gonna sacrifice a human life to you today."

Tulio bristles. "Who the hell does he think we are, your _sister?"_

"W-W-What does my sister have to do with this?"

"Hello, she demanded Agamemnon kill his own daughter, a girl literally under her own protection!"

Miguel turns up his nose. "I was thinking more along the lines of God demanding that guy's firstborn, before totally ripping the rug out from under home."

Chel considers this. "You were gods, and now you are. What does it matter what you were in between?"

Pride makes Tulio bite his tongue. Even Miguel averts his eyes.

The snake... god chews his forked tongued for a long time, because his fangs conveniently go flat when he doesn't feel like slicing himself. "What matters," he says at last, "is the good we can do for the people right here, right now." He hisses. "Starting with Tzekel-Kan."

Tulio nods solemnly.

When the gods stride out to deliver justice, they do not realize how much it counts Chel walks with them, or the shameful confessions that will spill out in the years to come.

Or the unerring forgiveness they will face from her. She is Manoa's faith personified, and they have given the city nothing but faith. Miguel heals without ever casting down plague. Tulio only steals souls from the Lords of Xibalba, not innocence or lives. Manoa knows only the good faces of their gods, and that they have naught to fear.

Just as they know the ruthlessness their Guardian Gods turn upon their enemies.

* * *

Mammon of course leads the trek through jungle. In these lands, gold must _still_ be ripe for the taking. Never mind what became of the Aztec and the Inca. El Dorado, golden king of cities, must still be out there. That is why Mammon leads this men, when his compatriots must march with the men. That is why Mammon wear's the proud, strong face of a conquistador, for so long as the Spaniards glut themselves on gold he has conquered their hearts.

"Excuse me," a mild voice interrupts. "But I do believe you're trespassing."

In between one moment and the next, sunlight and shadows coalesce. Mammon smirks, tight-lipped.He has beaten down even the great, horrific gods of Tenochtitlan. Their great idols were melted down in his name for gold bullion. These little savage deities are simply dressed with pretty little human faces, though the gold on their arms promises a people ripe for the taking.

"Haven't you heard?" He purrs. "These lands are all Spain's. The Church has declared so, and so your wealth is our wealth. I..." The Prince of Greed cocks his head. "I'm sorry, have we met somewhere?"

Despite their dress, the spirits are... obviously not from around here. One is blond, for fuck's sake, his eyes green. The taller one is even paler in  skin tone, his eyes stormy blue.

The dark-haired one crosses his arms. "I don't know," he intones sardonically. "Have we?"

Mammon scowls at the tone. _Now_ he knows these guys. "Tulio and... the other guy, right?" Honestly, what sort of demon uses the name _Miguel?_ That's courting death, that's what it is! "Rumor was you were both dead."

It's not like either of them had been great demons. Tulio had been mostly about material theft and general mischief. The other guy had been more about stupid impulses, like fucking the next door neighbor or daydreaming during mass. Sure, both might have been ancient _,_ but the old heathen ideas never really grasped the _true_ depths of human suffering like their successors had. The pagan idea of the afterlife had been gray and bleak, impossible in its paradise and tepid in its hell. No wonder paganism was a dying breed.

Miguel grins. "Never felt better, actually."

Mammon smirks again as he gets it. "Oh, I see. You guys jumped ship to milk that sweet heathen tit while you could, right? Tied yourselves up to people praying to false idols and dancing naked around the full moon and shit. Go find somewhere else to play, while you still can."

The two minor demons appraise him, a Prince of Hell, and then exchange looks with each other. "...He's not serious, right?"

"He is," Miguel sighs. "This makes me miss the old daimons. They were so much more _nuanced,_ you know? Invidia, Petulantia, Nefas, dozens of others. And now there's just... what, seven of them?"

"Yeah," Tulio agrees. "And they knew their place in the world too."

Mammon bares his yellowed, broken teeth in rage. No matter how alluring on the outside he is rotten to the core. How in the hell do these demons look so... so damned _pretty?_ Miguel should be scales and slitted eyes, Tulio dragging one cloven hoof and stumpy horns. Even their eyes, windows to their core, are human in their depths.

"I am Mammon, Prince of Greed! Everything you are, I own!"

"He doesn't remember _us,_ does he?"

"Nah, he's like... Vulgate era. If that. Maybe even younger."

Mammon stalks forward, cracks sundering the gild of his handsome face. "I am old as creation! I tempted angels into falling, to side with Lucifer against the lot God gave them! I know what you are, and I know what you are not. Do not show those _false_ faces to me!"

"They're our faces," Miguel sniffs. "Just the polite ones. You're the one who so rudely brought an army to our city."

Mammon slavers. Not village or town, _city,_ with a bustling population to enslave and treasures to take. His form swells, ballooning beyond human proportions. He looms over two annoyingly... human demons. "You mean _my city."_

Gone are the facades. One is resplendent in emerald scales, fangs dripping venom. The other stomps a cloven hoof and snorts down into his face, for both dwarf him by leagues.

"Our city," a voice corrects primly.

Unlike her bestial companions she is entirely human in shape, and all the more terrible for it. She is every wild fantasy a Spaniard has ever held for a savage woman.  Her hair is like black silk and men could drown in her curves. If only her beauty wasn't armored in black jaguar skin. She smiles at him before she swings her skeletal mask down over her face. The stallion she is upon stomps a foreboding hoof, murder in his eyes.

"Your city," Mammon squeaks, as she swings her spear his way.

The gods grin, before bearing down on him and his whole expedition.

...Whoever said the New World was a godless land is a lying sack of shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I was going for dark in the beginning, dammit. And then my muse brings me this XD Because even as demons, Miguel and Tulio mostly just sleep around, steal, and make people do dumb things.
> 
> Being unable to totally shake a demon appearance has to do with a medieval concept of 'ugly' evil, inherently knowable on sight. Even those people who fear seduction by demons like to imagine they're the only ones in the world canny enough to know a demon on sight, and so every demon carries a trademark bit of hellishness, no matter their form. Miguel's draws from the Aesculapian snake sacred to his son, and Tulio's from his history as Pan-Hermes.
> 
> Holy names, like invoking God or scripture, was supposed to repulse evil. As the Church-official name of the archangel is the Latin 'Micachel' and not the Spanish 'Miguel,' one might say Miguel is... playing with fire :D Joke was on people though, because starting in the Renaissance the bible itself started to be used in occultism, and turned everything into open season.
> 
> Mammon was construed in medieval times as a Prince of Hell, the demon of Greed. The concept of his name didn't even seem to start evolving until Vulgar Latin, so he was either a fledgling concept or didn't exist at all when the pagan gods were in their last decline. Preceding demons were the daimons - Greco-Roman personifications of concepts not worshiped. And they had a TON - with the bad ones plaguing mortals but getting clobbered by good daimons and the gods. Interestingly they don't seem to have had a straight daimon for greed - Thrasus was insolence, Petulantia reckless pride, and Nefas rash action. All certainly causes of greed, but not just greed itself.
> 
> ...I now might just go for that sweet, sweet angst and emotional catharsis where Miguel and Tulio were nothing else other than demons before they wash up in Manoa.


	15. spineless (and slippery)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They are like snakes, spineless and slippery-"
> 
> "What's wrong with snakes?"
> 
> Tzekel-Kan manages to corner Miguel instead of Tulio. Too bad for him Miguel doesn't take kindly to family members being insulted.

Miguel has only three days to enjoy Manoa. Actually, probably only _today,_ because once he returns to the temple Tulio is shackling him to the bed for daring to run away in the first place. And risking their entire con for sightseeing. Which isn't a bad thing, but that can happen anytime and Miguel has only so many hours to make memories that much last him a hopefully very long lifetime.

So Miguel tries to wholeheartedly enjoy his ballgame. But he can't when he spots Tzekel-Kan staring holes into him.

With an apologetic smile, Miguel bumps the ball back to his playmates. "Sorry, boys, godly business to attend to."

A chorus of disappointed whines follow him up the steps, but this is too good an opportunity to miss. At least Miguel can reprimand the high priest for daring to 'cleanse the streets' in his name, without ever asking permission to speak in _his_ name... And Tulio's.\

Tzekel-Kan smiles at the sight of him, closing his yellow, ancient book. One purposeful glare has Chima, his head warrior, hastening away. "Lord Miguel, I was just praying for your enlightenment."

"Really?" Miguel arches a skeptical eyebrow. "I thought one 'does not question the gods." The high priest pales and falters, before Miguel grins at him. "You were created curious, Tzekel-Kan. So long as you're polite about it, it's okay to ask questions. From personal experience, it saves so much trouble down the road."

"I-I just spotted you out among the people, my lord, and...." Caution wars with another emotion across the high priest's face. Caution does not win. "Might I be so bold to offer you some advice, my lord?"

Miguel crosses his arms as his own annoyance bubbles up. "What words are you going to put in my mouth this time?"

Tzekel-Kan stutters, but is quick to recover. "My lord, it has been a thousand years since you last came to these lands. You are perfect, but in your perfection you cannot know how imperfect humans are."

He waves his arms, daylight fading as the radiance of his green spell devours it. Miguel watches, mesmerized. When he has he last seen true magic performed, especially by one esteemed as a high priest? He grins as the two spectral serpents formed.

"Like snakes, they are," the high priest seethes. "Spineless and slippery."

Miguel frowns sharply, holding up an arm for the snakes to wrap around. "What's wrong with snakes?"

"I-I-I don't understand, my lord."

One snake flicks out a pointed tongue. He bites back a grin as the magic tickles his skin. "Snakes are slippery so they can move around without limbs, Tzekel-Kan. And they aren't spineless. In fact, their spines are extraordinarily flexible. That's how they are, and they're amazing for it." The two snakes coil around his arms, hissing at the compliment. "So, what's your problem with snakes?"

Tzekel-Kan's concentration for the spell breaks, but the serpents don't fade. Their yellow eyes swivel demandingly back to him.

The high priest stammers before collecting himself. "Many are venomous, Lord Miguel, and can condemn even the strongest warrior to a painful demise with a single bite. Some will sneak up on their victims in the dead of night to strangle the life from them."

"Yes," Miguel concedes. "But not all. Most are simply happy to clear your fields and gardens of pests. Even the venomous ones, when treated respectably, pose no danger." The snakes nod smugly. He frowns as a thought comes to him. "Aren't we in the Age of the Serpent right now?"

The Feathered Serpent brought down the Dual Gods to create the Fifth World, before flying them back to the heavens.

"...We were, my lord," Tzekel-Kan allows. "But that was a thousand years ago, and you have returned to us upon Lord Altivo, who is certainly unlike any serpent we've ever seen before. Isn't it perhaps time for a new age?"

Miguel frowns down at the serpents. Their brilliant emerald color stirs a faint memory of him, of reeds stirring by a riverbank and protective green color. "...My mother was a snake goddess," he murmurs. "When I was a baby, she kept me safe on a floating island, and spat venom into the eyes of my enemies."

The memory is faint and warped by time and the uncertainty of his own ancestry. One part of him insists he was _Heru,_ guarded by Wadjet in the reeds. Another remembers _Apollo_ , whose mother was Leto, known as Buto in Egypt. His birthplace is both the floating isle of Delos, mirrored by her oracle in Khemmis. All that matters is the danger of his youth, whether stalked by a usurping uncle or vengeful stepmother, and the coils of a mother who took any and every form to protect him.

In encouragement one of the serpents flares out a hood, revealing it to be a cobra after all. Miguel grins even as Tzekel-Kan nervously backs up.

"Snakes are wise," he coos to the adoring serpents. "They know how to heal and even resurrect the dead. One of my sons picked up their knowledge and one of my grandsons hatched an actual snake, thank you."

Miguel pauses as something hits him. Glycon had _hatched an actual snake._ Not an immortal serpent, a totally mundane snake, until that charlatan priest swapped him out for a man-sized puppet. Glycon had been a blatant con, a way for a liar to take advantage of those seeking healing and fertility.

Until the people had _believed_ beyond a puppet serpent and his silver-tongued priest, when Glycon had first spoke on his own.

Miguel has never been, and will never be, a puppet.

"I don't appreciate priests that give orders in my name without ever consulting me, Tzekel-Kan," he says gravely. "I never have, and I never will." The two serpents at his side hiss, rearing up as if to strike. "And I _especially_ don't appreciate insults toward my family."

The high priest stammers, his fear very much real, real as the faith uncoiling in Miguel's core.

With a fanged grin, Miguel reaches for it.

"So I ask you one more time, Tzekel-Kan, what's your problem with snakes?"

* * *

Tulio is drowning in mortal bliss (particularly Chel's) and has no desire to resurface, no thank you.

Pointed hissing kills the mood quick. With yellow eyes boring into him he flies apart from Chel with a squeal. And starts spewing desperate denials.

"W-W-We weren't-" He sighs as the two serpents stare pointedly at him. "All right, we totally did."

Chel freezes, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. "Those are agents of Tzekel-Kan's magic, you idiot!" she mutters out of the corner of her mouth. "Maybe don't admit to sleeping with your priestess!"

"Maybe they were," Tulio groans. Without a staff he holds up an arm for the two to coil around. They smugly do so. "But not anymore."

Chel stares. The serpents stare back. They flick out their tongues, before nodding approvingly.

"What?" she says blankly.

Tulio tries an explanation, but the pointed hissing of the serpents comes first. Most animals aren't worth understanding, but these are no mere beasts. His eyes widen at the rumors spewing from their mouths. He rises from bed and fixes his clothing as best he can with snakes wrapped around one arm.

"Come on," he sighs.

Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Miguel."

It's all she needs to adjust her own clothes and take his hand. They glide down the temple steps with impossible swiftness. Of course Chel notices and glares suspiciously at the serpents. They bob their heads smugly back, because this not their work. Tulio sighs as he realizes what he has instinctively tapped into. Perhaps that little show of stopping human sacrifice, or maybe just shamelessly claiming heaping piles of gold as their own tribute, had been a little too much.

"What's wrong with Miguel?" Chel tries at last.

"Everything," Tulio answers flatly. "He's _Miguel_."

They come to a stop at the steps of a stone building. Out slithers a massive serpent, its back scales rich emerald and belly pure gold. Chel's nails sink into his arm.

Tulio exhales. This deity likes the plumed head of the Feathered Serpent. When he rears to eye level, he knows the mischievous twinkle to those green eyes all too well. He smiles wanly when the serpent flares out a golden hood. Cobras are not native to these lands.

With Chel clinging to one arm and the serpents to another, he settles for a disapproving scowl. "What happened to lying low?"

Miguel flicks out a tongue that smells their sex like it does prey. "What happened to 'Chel is off-limits?'"

Faced with a giant talking snake, Chel's first instinct is to recoil. Then she huffs and draws up her arms. "Excuse me? Since when do you two idiots get a say in what I can and can't do?"

The giant cobra wilts in shame. "Never."

"Damn right." Chel considers Miguel's scaliness, and her glower becoming more pointed. She flicks her eyes to the disbelieving crowds gathering a cautious distance from the literal giant talking snake. "This... wasn't part of the job description."

"Certain things might have become truer since yesterday," Tulio allows, before scowling at Miguel. "Through no fault of my own."

His partner sniffs. Between one blink and the next he's human, crossing his own arms. Tulio melts in relief to behold the face he has known for a thousand years, even if Miguel has unconsciously ditched their Spanish clothes for the garb from last night. "Well, excuse me for wanting to taking a little time to know this city a little better." He smirks. "And from having a most enlightening conversation with the high priest about what an Age of the Serpent should entail."

Questions roll across Chel's face. The one she picks is of course, "....He wet himself, didn't he?"

"He did," Miguel laughs. "And he won't commit another human sacrifice. Not now, not ever."

Tulio sputters indignantly. "W-What happened to _leaving_? We literally have a boat being built as we speak!"

The two serpents on his arm dutifully remind him there are no Dual Gods to fear... unless Tulio is scared of himself. Because he and Miguel all but claimed the role yesterday, and Manoa's faith is swift rising them to that position.

"What happened to you two being... you know..." Chel rebuts.

"Faith," Miguel says simply. He knows it better than anyone. That's how dead kids get resurrected as gods. And how one gains puppet grandsons.

Chel considers this. "Really?" she asks Tulio.

"Really," he sighs. "If people have faith, lies... aren't always lies."

Chel's gaze goes far away. The two serpents desert Tulio's arm to twine around her neck instead, whispering treacherous advice into her ears. She grins, slow and impish.

"Yeah," she purrs aloud. "That could work."

Tulio goes boneless at the look she gives him. "Whatever it is, yes. Yes a thousand times over."

"I'm not just asking you, idiot." Uncertain dark eyes go to Miguel. "Partners, no matter what?"

Pride crumbles. With an earnest smile, Miguel takes her hand to kiss it. "Partners."

The little serpents, conspiring bastards, uncoil from Chel's neck to headbutt the two together into a proper kiss. Tulio considers his options and slithers in too.

Both. Both is good.

* * *

The Triple Gods of Manoa need only a single throne. At times Lady Chel sits like a resplendent queen, the Cobra God and Viper God in green and obsidian coils around her lap and shoulders as she takes in their council and delivers her judgement. In others it is Lord Tulio or Lord Miguel who arbitrate, the Serpent Goddess twines around the speaker, radiant in scales of black, red, and white.

At other times, the Triple Gods need no individual speaker. They coil around their throne in serpentine grace and hiss omens, despite their different coils twined so close it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. In other instances they sit knee-to-knee and render judgement in united voices.

Until the Serpent Gods give in to bickering in hisses and tongues beyond Manoan comprehension. Their wife handles it with sublime grace. They're just like that, sometimes.

Lord Altivo, of course, is a Horse God. He has no time for prophecies and cryptic wisdom. He is simply the wind, open and honest, who blows as he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snakes were revered by the Greeks as symbols of healing, wisdom, and resurrection. A large part of it probably came from snakes shedding old skins as a literal form of renewal, and another part from apotropaic magic. It's a theme that crops up with Egyptian snake gods too - that delivers of venom could theoretically prevent and heal such infliction. 
> 
> Snakes play a big part in the mythos of Apollo and his family. Obviously his son is Asclepius (the guy with the snake god). One of his grandsons by Asclepius was Glycon, the healing and fertility deity that literally began as a puppet before acquiring a legitimate, wide-spread following. So weirder things have been made gods in Greek precedent than two old has-beens XD
> 
> Apollo was equated by the Greeks to the Egyptian Horus. Leto, however, was equated to Wadjet (Greek Uto) - the cobra goddess who protected the infant Horus and served as a wider protector of kings and the young. An oracle of Uto in Khemmis was said by Herodotus to be raised in example of Delos, the floating island where Leto birthed Apollo. Khemmis also included a temple to a god likened to Apollo. The snake oracle of Wadjet may or may not have inspired the oracular prophecies that gave rise to some of Apollo's own oracles.
> 
> Hermes of course has his caduceus - a symbol of travelers historically, not healers :p
> 
> True cobras are an Old World snake. They tend to prey on other snakes, which fits with Apollo slaying Python. Tulio's is something like a nose-horned viper, endemic to Greece. It has a fearsome reputation but is mellow as far as venomous snakes go - but males will do a combat dance during mating season XD Chel's form is that of a beautiful and highly venomous coral snake.


	16. true colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel still bleeds before an audience.
> 
> It just isn't the color Tulio's expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short and sweet, to tide you over while my door-stoppers develop ; )

Miguel is having a literal ball, because these adorable boys asked him to join in their game. How could he say no to those eager little faces? Sure, Tulio would consider him breaking his promise about lying low, but Miguel begs to differ. Secluding himself up in the temple would be more suspicious. If these people want to commiserate with their gods, then he's simply playing the part.

The ballgame's challenge comes in not using his hands. Against his current competition, it's mindless fun. Boys aren't exactly capable of challenging a g... grown man, who has the limberness and experience they won't have for years. But these are kids. It's not like he's looking to crush them into the dust or something. Miguel lives for their laughter and their awe when he can roll the ball over his shoulders just so.

He tones things as gently as he can, but the smallest boys still struggle to keep up. What happens next is almost inevitable.

The game grinds to a halt when the youngest player trips over an uneven stone. Neither Miguel nor Altivo are close enough to prevent his fall.

 At his wail Miguel hurries over to his side. "There, there now," he soothes. "Let's get you up."

Fortunately little Doro caught himself with his hands. His palms are scraped up awful and his knees even worse, but there's no broken teeth or twisted ankles. Not that his injuries being blessedly mundane keep Doro from crying his head off. Miguel has seen children his age shoulder suffer far worse with far more dignity. Then again, those had been his _sister's_ companions. Some of them had eventually grown up. Some had remained eternally eight. Both had needed his help when a hunt had gone south, leaving some huntress white-faced and swearing after a boar tore into her middle or an antler impaled her shoulder.

"Please, Doro," scoffs an older boy, Hei. "You won't even get a cool scar out of it."

"Yeah," chimes in another. "Quit crying like a baby, especially in front of... you know."

Miguel plays dumb to the head jerked frantically in his direction. He has been a father many times over and a big brother many times more than that. He knows how to spare a child's dignity.

"Nonsense," he chides. "It's perfectly alright to cry. Gods do it all the time." Granted, some of the more emotionally constipated members of his family could have perhaps used a catharsis or ten more. "It's healthy in the right amounts."

"Really?" doubts one of the older boys, even as Doro starts to quiet as that.

"Yes," Miguel answers brightly. "Really." Without water on hand, he makes a face and rips part of his sleeve as a makeshift rag to staunch the blood away. Not the most hygienic of supplies, but he's made do with worse before.

"Gods don't get booboos," Hei jeers.

"Sure we do," Miguel rebuffs, flooring every boy present. And the cautious crowd gathered around them. "Granted, monsters and giants give us the most trouble, but if someone was _very_ persistent..." He grimaces and shoves the memories of the Trojan War from his mind. "Well, then it's not a pleasant day for either of you." Most especially to the idiot that dared make divinity bleed.

Cleaning the wounds isn't enough. He frowns at the raw red marring what had just been smooth baby skin mere minutes ago. Such a thing is not to be tolerated, not here. Not today.

Bile rises up in his throat. Miguel forces it back down. These are skinned knees, not the plague. Surely after glutting himself on gold and misattributed affections he has scrounged up enough power to...

"Ah," he blurts out, when the wounds weave themselves close with little fanfare. He had expected it to be harder than that. Of course Miguel swiftly covers up his surprise with his brightest smile. "See. No harm done."

Doro sniffles one last time, watery eyes widening as he takes in the most minor of miracles. His nose scrunches at the dust still staining his clothes. "Well, only to my clothes." As an afterthought, he adds, "Thank you, Lord Miguel."

Miguel takes it in stride. Children are still growing into their capacity for gratitude. But Hei is a bit older and should have had the tact not to ask if gods could really bleed.

Too bad Miguel is a sucker for all things young and adorable. "Well, not like mortals do. We're made of different stuff."

The kids nod sagely at this. With a ballgame at hand, they quickly forget the philosophical for the funner things. Even Miguel brushes it off. He's here for only three days and has to make every moment count, after all.

Tzekel-Kan, who has already stalked off to seek enlightenment from Lord Tulio, misses it. With the whole affair done in two minutes, and no proof left of it, it's almost like it never happened at all.

Almost.

* * *

"This city and these people... have no need for you anymore. There will no sacrifices. Not now, not ever." Miguel draws himself up. Burning with righteous fury he almost, _almost_ manages to make himself as terrifying as he used to be as he glares down Tzekel-Kan. _"Get out!"_

Tulio, a helpless bystander, has felt his fear steadily receding as the crowd rises with his partner's proclamation. Now he swells with pride for Miguel, sheer awe, and no small amount of arousal.

Tzekel-Kan does not break easily. His gaze sweeps around the cheering crowd, searching for support where there is none to be found. Chief Tannabok, the smug bastard, even grants a cheeky wave goodbye.

It's still not enough time for Miguel's stupid scratch to heal. Tulio's elation sinks into utter terror as ugly red stubbornly mars his partner's perfection. It's miracle enough no one in the crowd has noticed their 'gods' are so blatantly false. They're not even mortal, they're less than it. His heart thunders as Tzekal-Kan fixates back on Miguel. Of fucking course the scratch is gonna choose _that exact moment_ to bleed.

And it does. A telltale trickle trails past Miguel's brow.

It is not ichor, pale and ethereal. Their bodies have not been divine since they lowered themselves to feeding on flesh instead of contenting themselves to the savor of their sacrifices. Miguel bleeds slow and sluggish.

Beneath red, near-mortal flesh, Miguel's blood seeps _gold._

"What," Tulio says blankly.

 _"What?"_ Chel hisses shrilly, scarcely tamping down a shriek. He winces as her nails unconsciously sink into his arm, deep enough to...

Chel guiltily jerks her hand away. Tulio refuses to look down. He has enough self-control not to...

They look down. And bite back swears at the gold welling up from angry red.

Tulio is almost too stunned to miss Tzekel-Kan finally fold like a wet blanket and flee with the crowd with the ineffable proof Miguel's divinity. Or at least utter inhumanity.

Oblivious to his utter... _Miguel-ness,_ Miguel is swept up by the adoring crowd. Much to his surprise (and secret glee), Tulio is vaunted up, elevated above the crowds like his idols were during the religious processions of old. He is eye-level when Miguel carelessly wipes sweat and golden blood from his brow, his wound at least weaving itself shut.

His partner grins, punching him on the shoulder as his bearers carry him past. "Not bad for my first commandment, eh?"

"Miguel, you.." Tulio trails incredulously off as Miguel sweeps out of earshot. He smiles fondly after his idiot and lets the matter go. For now.

Finding Chel's eyes in the crowd, he grins apologetically down at her. They owe her a _lot_ of explanations. And gold. And maybe more. If she was satisfied by one loser con artist, how would she consider the prospect of two bona fide gods?

_Gods._

Tulio frowns down at his own nail marks, finally fading into flesh. What blood remaining evaporates.

He is still himself. Miguel... has never been more Miguel. Perhaps there _is_ a place for them here, what with there being two very large openings in the local pantheon to fill.

If they convince their partner to extend her stay in the city by a century or two, at the very least. Tulio can be very convincing when he wants to be, and Miguel even more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greco-Roman gods only partook in the smoke burned from a sacrifice. In the Homeric hymns it's implied something very bad happens to gods that don't stick to eating nectar and ambrosia. Like... some translations of the Iliad imply eating only nectar and ambrosia keeps gods deathless. When they break it... It's why even baby Hermes, who was bold enough to steal his brother's cattle, doesn't actually eat any. It's how our idiots can still bleed red, only to have their wounds mysteriously vanish when it's convenient for screenwriters to stop animating it :p
> 
> Ouranos got castrated. Zeus got his hamstrings stolen. Kronos got dismembered. A lot of gods in the Iliad were injured by demigod (or even outright mortal) combatants. Deathless never meant invincible to the Greeks or the Romans.
> 
> Ichor is the blood of Greco-Roman gods, generally assumed to be pale and watery as watery discharge from wounds today can still be termed 'ichor.' Of course, that's not golden enough for the City of Gold :p
> 
> It is not unheard of for Greek gods to make their favorite mortals immortal companions in their court. Of course, the majority of these are simply immortal humans, with no divinity whatsoever to speak of. The minority, however... :p


	17. the wicked (and unrighteous)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manoa should be careful with what they let into their homes and their hearts.
> 
> Or one where our idiots are, and always have been, demons.
> 
> That's... still not necessarily a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should've been a Halloween release. Then it exploded out of hand. And it's still a fix-it!

The tavern is dark and dingy, the only light the blazing fire in the hearth. The beer tastes like horse piss, but it's cheap and flows like rivers. Bodies are packed inside, drunk and dizzy and desperate. It's a feast ripe for the taking.

So many beg to be eaten. Men throw themselves at the buxom beauty with sultry eyes and hair red as the fire. They serenade her in time to the lute happily strumming along in the background, try to spin her into dances or purr promises of pleasure into her ears. She saunters through them all, coyly pushing the more persistent ones out of her way. These men are near empty already. Something more... substantive has caught her eye tonight.

He's a virgin still, young and pretty, and despairing at the thought he shall soon be locked in holy matrimony with the waif of a wife his parents have lined up for him. His friends have gotten drunk in the one-sided celebration and are far too deep in their cups to do more than whistle encouragement when she sidles in.

"Celebrating something special?" she asks, letting just a tinge of suggestion seep into her tone.

"You could say that," the mortal answers glumly, before finishing off his mug.

"Then something special calls for a special drink." She smiles at one of the virgin's friends, who happily calls the bar-tender over.

Right when the good stuff comes over, the sort that will strip even the chastest man of his inhibitions, the lute player intensifies his song. Her target looks up. So does she, if only because her eyes flash in annoyance. The musician locks emerald eyes with _her_ virgin. With an enthused grin he kicks up his song yet _another_ level, fingers dancing passionately across the strings. He winks their way as he finishes, sinking into a bow for the crowd before strutting for the back door, into the darkened alleys.

"Be right back," the mortal absently tells his friends as he stands. "I need to take a piss."

"Can't it _wait,_ Ernesto?" one hisses, jerking his head toward her. At least one of these idiots has their priorities straight.

"Nope," he says bluntly, scarce able to contain his excitement before he walks off to willingly embrace his doom.

She bites back an exasperated snarl as his idiot friends decide to take advantage of his absence. She's ready to drain all four of them, because only together will they come close to what the virgin was worth, when someone sidles in first to sling a gallant arm around her shoulders.

"Sorry, boys," says the newcomer. "She's taken tonight."

The largest one stands up. "Is that so?"

"Yesss," the stranger says, with a whisper of power sinking into that single world. She too smiles in the way that just bares a hint of her pointed teeth, to enforce that slightest niggle of _fear_ without bringing it to the forefront. It's enough to make them retreat. None of that four are desperate to throw their lives away that night.

Not yet, anyway.

"My hero," she sneers.

He smirks, canines a tinge too sharp. His blue eyes flash inhumanly in the firelight, because they are the one part he cannot disguise. The shadows at least shroud their slit pupils. "I saved you from an upset stomach. Is a bit of gratitude too much for you?"

"Should I thank your idiot partner for running off with the steak and leaving me with the spoiled sausages?"

He shrugs, deft fingers plucking another coin purse from the man beside him in the same motion, for that moron is currently drooling at her tits. The current ones, anyway. "Not my fault your target preferred beards to breasts." He stows his pilfered gold away, where no mortal can reach. "Maybe you succubi should branch out more. There's a lovely nunnery just outside of town."

She rolls her eyes. Only the most minor of demons are desperate enough to risk lurking so close to holy ground. She is an elder succubus, with all the high standards thereof. Even if she is not yet strong enough to ensnare sodomites, even virgin ones, in her thrall.

"Worm," she sneers.

"Rotten bitch," he hisses back.

It's enough to make her jolt, sniffing self-consciously at her armpit. She's not smelly already, is she? She only snagged this body three days ago, and the whimpers of its former occupant had only _just_ finally went silent this morning.

With a shit-eating green, the worm slithers back into the crowd. He sticks his forked tongue out before vanishing.

Too late does she realizes how much lighter her bosom is, without all the coin of a runaway noble maid tucked securely away. Growling, she abandons ship, and jumps onto the most fair-faced of the tavern sluts instead.

Gods damned serpents, always spoiling her fun.

* * *

There are demons and then there are _demons._ Some are old as creation, immortal and immutable as the angels they once were before the Fall. These are the named demons, for their exploits are feared far and wide, their names known to the great religious texts, or at least the apocrypha. They seize onto souls and ride them for all they're worth, until the mortal inside dies and the vessel starts to rot.

Then there are lesser demons who did not have their physical forms scoured from the earth. Tulio and Miguel are not nearly so old. They're around a thousand years or so at the oldest, born from all the interesting blood lusts and urges kicked up sometime around the fall of the Roman Empire or so. Their youth is a bit hazy, their existences only becoming more solid as Christianity solidified its hold and allowed them into the hearts of every man and woman.

They are mere serpents, at worst an impulse easily ignored and at best a whisper in the back of the mind. They are the sort who can only _tempt_ and not outright _possess._ They are demons without niches, beyond where they can slither in for the time being.

So they've learned to improvise. That's how they're on earth a thousand years later, when most of those like them get banished back to hell in the first few years or so.

Tulio hisses in annoyance as the warmth of the forge withers beyond his comfort range. For a time the fires had burned near warm as hell. Now he finds himself huddling deeper into Miguel for warm, even though the idiot has none of his own to give. Serpents are cold-blooded.

"Come on, sleeping beauty," he says dryly. "Time to go."

Miguel whines, head burrowing deeper into his own coils. "B-But-"

"Do you wanna miss the boat?"

"No," grumbles the other demon.

"Good," Tulio grunts. "So get up."

Miguel grumbles, slow as syrup in winter. He's still shedding off his main skin by the time Tulio's chucked the last of his own into the smoldering remnants of the fire. Without his essence it quickly flakes to ash.

_"Really_ , Miguel?"

The serpent rolls his eyes as he human hands to shuck the skin from his hips. "Excuse me, but some of us are still digesting here."

"That's the point," Tulio says bluntly as he ties back his hair and smooths down his rumpled clothes. "We have weeks on a boat. Under  _Cortes._ In tight quarters with some of the most zealous freaks in all of Christendom. This is our last big meal for weeks. Or ever, if you can't keep cover."

Miguel flicks out a forked tongue, as if the brat hadn't gotten the better meal last night. That smith had been, like, fifty pounds heavier than his apprentice. And laden down by thirty more years' worth of envy and resentment. Tulio had made do with the brazen young idiot who had come to despise his mentor enough to commit murder. Even after their souls had been dragged down to hell their bodies had remained potent in their sins.

Before Miguel dresses Tulio triple-checks to make sure he's picked every last scale off. Then he makes sure the forge very much resembles the murder scene it is. The remnants of the pig they heaved into the fire last night smell and look convincingly human enough for mortals to conclude the jealous apprentice finally murdered his master before fleeing into the night, to never be seen again.

"We have time to at least catch a snack before we leave, right? To help... keep the edge off?"

Part of Tulio wants to retort they took the edge off less than twelve hours ago, but the rest of him is just as greedy as his partner. "One quick con for the road... er, boat?"

Miguel grins, revealing he yet again to sheathe his fangs. Tulio sighs.

At least the docks are always crawling with the sorts of souls with exactly the right chips in their shoulders. In no time Miguel's music entices a crowd and Tulio's taunts a heaping pile of gold that inspires more stupid people and stupid choices. One 'accidental' drop of his dice later and all hell breaks loose. Armed guards war with wrathful sailors and bystanders simply trying to snatch up their share of the loot.

From the safety of the rooftops Tulio basks in the sweet, sweet glow of wrath and greed and envy. The physical form that prevents an easy banishing to hell also prevents him from sustaining his being on pure sin alone, but by Satan does it take the edge off.

He still spares Miguel an arched eyebrow when he slides the yellowed map into his sleeve. "Really?"

Miguel grins. "It's _El Dorado,_ Tulio, the golden king of cities! Imagine the fun!"

"If it exists," Tulio hisses, before he tilts his head in conceit that mortals have sinned themselves silly over utter myth before. The crusades of the past were proof of that. What made it even better was that every side thought themselves the true believers, and all others the heathens and infidels!

* * *

Altivo snorts the moment he scents brimstone in the crowd. He can do nothing more because Cortes is giving his grand speech to his adoring crowd, and gods be damned if he gets interrupted, even by sin incarnate come to fuck up his pure New World before the expedition can even disembark. The stallion's disbelief only intensifies as the two demons saunter onto the crown ship still reeking of hellfire and and human blood. Sure, humans have shit noses, but surely they're not blind to miss the _slit-pupiled eyes._

But of course they are. Humans always are. Long before Altivo was reduced to his current state the worst ilk of mankind marched behind him. Altivo had been lord of horses, the pride of the battlefield. Where humans sought glory and conquest, greed and wrath and devastation always followed.

Altivo is almost impressed by the balls upon these snakes. The great demons are still out on the islands, digesting them as Spain is, beating down rebellious natives and organizing their lands into nice, neat plantations that will swiftly swallow whole cultures.

Then the little worms have the gall to gaze upon him. The taller one sneers and turns away. The smaller one, however, gapes ever so slightly as his head tilts on confusion. "Tulio," he whispers, too low for human ears. "Tulio, is that-"

"It's a _horse,_ Miguel."

"But-"

"A. Horse," Tulio hisses, before dragging his partner into formation, like they're two good little sailors. Yeah fucking right.

To be fair, the voyage goes by more or less smoothly, the odd tryst or stolen rations aside. The demons stir up only enough trouble to keep themselves occupied, because out in these cold, empty seas they will drown with all the rest of them. No one even goes missing, but that's only because not even Cortes' grand galleon has the space for man-sized serpents to digest victims without being discovered.

Altivo is content to ignore his unwelcome crew mates if they pay him the same courtesy. Tulio happily does. Miguel, however, spies on Altivo when he thinks the horse isn't looking. Altivo senses him anyway. Any horse knows when a predator is stalking them.

"Excuse me, excuse me," Miguel whispers one day, under the guise of innocently swabbing the deck. "Are you really a horse?" Altivo gives the only proper response, a withering stare. "Sorry, old boy. I mean, were you _always_ a horse? Because, if not, that makes you..." The demon laughs giddily. "I thought all of _your lot_ were gone. But here you are, off to find your fortune like the rest of us!"

Altivo snorts. Sure, _most_ of the pagan traditions that preceded the monotheistic faiths are gone. Not all. Even God-fearing Catholics fear the Wild Hunt. The Basque are still perhaps not truly Spanish at all, and if one knows where to look in the mountains of the Pyrenees one might still find groves and secret springs where an ear might still be amenable to the right words at the right offer.

Still, it tickles what's left of his pride to be admired by someone, even if that someone is an irreverent demon. So Altivo prances to the other side of the dock, to defecate on Pablo's spot to wipe. Damn him for enforcing Cortes' orders of half-rations!

Miguel starts swiping apples. Altivo happily downs them, but always leaves enough of a core behind for Cortes to accuse others of stealing rations. It's a game even Altivo can get behind, when the best part of the tribute goes to him and Miguel contents himself to sucking up the paranoia on the apple thief.

So, when the storm heaves Altivo overboard, he allows himself to be pleasantly surprised when Miguel jumps in after him. With Tulio, because it takes two of them to commandeer a long boat. Even if the 'rescue' only then condemns Altivo to a slow, dragging death by dehydration rather than a painless drowning.

Unless the gods damned bickering drives him overboard first.

"You made us jump ship for a _horse._ What kind of self-respecting demon are you?"

"I was perfectly capable of rescuing him all by myself, thank you. And what kind of self-respecting demon are _you,_ to jump ship for another demon? You could have gotten a head start corrupting the New World but here you are, taking the slow way with me."

"Y-You f-f-f..."

Altivo does his damnedest to drown them out. His ears only prick when their teeth start chattering. Stupid cold-blooded creatures, lacking their own natural body heat. They should be basking in screams and hellfire rather than shivering their skins out in the pouring rain.

Miguel sidles desperately close. "C-Care to r-r-return the favor, old boy?"

Sourly Altivo lets the snake huddle beside him. At least part of him is forged of honor and is still duty-bound to grant a life for a life. More pragmatically he needs someone with opposable thumbs to navigate the oars and get into the supplies. Tulio is more prideful but eventually greed and envy win out. He too grudgingly takes cover beneath the boat's one source of body heat.

In theory their supplies were unlimited. Even if the demons were shit fishermen they were both massive serpents, more than graceful enough to catch their own damn dinners. That left Altivo with more rations for himself and less of a chance of the demons turning on him. On this rickety boat, unable to properly stand, the odds were in their favor if it came down to a fight.

Not that either could so much as dip a toe into the water without reeling back from scalding burns. Lore on demons was inconsistent, but at least part of their natures insisted both salt and running water cleansed impurity. Sure, there was enough wriggle room to survive aboard a ship, but to _swim_ in something so against their natures? Downright impossible.

Altivo suspected most of the problem lay in the open ocean caring nothing for God or Satan. The sea simply is at is, no matter the faces mankind has tried to lash to it in the pass. Not that these idiots would understand even if could explain it to them. Their limited world has only ever known one God and the sins that corrupt His creation. How on earth can they fathom the world was once so much wider, and not so black and white?

In the first few days their situation is not so dire. The demons shed their fake skins and mostly bask in a blazing sun far more tolerable than hellfire. Only at night do they bicker, so Altivo takes to sleeping during the day too. With so little activity their metabolisms make them digest their meals slow and patiently.

But none of them are creatures of flesh alone. Demons feed off of the wickedness of men and there is no man around for miles. Even Altivo can't be an object of entertainment. He is a horse older than such temptations and without need of them. So too does he start to lose his niche in this world. He is a beast without burdens, a mount without a rider.

Drifting in and out of awareness, Altivo is distantly comforted that this is a relatively peaceful way to go. His days were numbered anyway. Just as gunpowder has replaced the bow and arrow so too will the horse be made obsolete.

Well, mostly peaceful. Because demons can't die with dignity. They curl together and wax poetic like an old married couple.

"Tulio, did you ever imagine it would end like this?"

"The horse is a surprise."

"Any... regrets?"

"Besides dying? I never... had enough... power. I _tempted,_ I could never just take who I wanted. I never made any demonology books, never had my name cried out before the Inquisition. A thousand years _of nothing."_

"My greatest regret, besides dying, is... our greatest adventure is over before it began and no one will even remember us."

"Well, if it's any consolation, Miguel, you made my life... an adventure."

"And if it's any consolation, Tulio, you made a thousand years... the best I've ever had."

Altivo slouches even further against the prow, leaning forward to maybe just inhale salt water and end his misery. His breath instead puffs up golden sand.

He raises his head to confirm that, yes, the shoreline and verdant jungle beyond are not the last gaps of a desperate mind. With an excited whinny Altivo erupts from the boat that might have been his tomb, new life and new purpose surging into his limbs.

The demons are slower on the uptake. As one their scaly heads pop out of the boat. With gleeful hisses they spill forth to slither ecstatic circles through the sand.

Altivo is so gleeful he joins them in kissing the earth. He's the only one to rear back when his muzzle nearly touches sun-bleached bone. Because his survival instincts are perfectly intact he gallops back to the waterline while the serpents thoughtfully flick their tongues over the skeletons and the golden blade left impaled in their bodies as warning.

"Greed," croons the black serpent. "Pure, unadulterated _greed."_

"Wrath," hisses Miguel, emerald eyes fixated on the blade. "So much willingness to kill over what they consider theirs, so much g-" The dusky brown demon lifts his head, swiveling from the skeletons to the giant, eagle-shaped boulder that is obviously man-made. "It can't be..."

Altivo averts his eyes in disgust at the nightmare of molting skin. When the demons had lost much of their energy they had huddled as one little pity pile, giving up on shifting altogether. Even the lingering taint of sins long dead grants Miguel the strength to take his man skin again. From a blood-red shirt he pulls forth yellowed paper.

"A map?" Tulio says in utter disbelief. "You kept _the map?"_

"To El Dorado," Miguel breathes reverently, before lighting up in excitement. "We've done it, Tulio! Look, the whistling rock, the stream, it's all here! Who else would leave a golden sword _as a warning?"_

Tulio tastes the air, again and again. Altivo once more rolls his eyes and looks away at the shifting nightmare of skin and scales as the now man-shaped demon leans over the map. A forked tongue flicks out once more. "We beat them here," he mutters. "Do you know what this means?"

"We get a head start before Cortes really starts ripping this place apart?" Miguel finishes hopefully. "A chance to see the sights, sample the sins, before we feast?"

Tulio smirks, baring fangs without fear of humans seeing them. "Hell _yesss_ we are. And all that glory will be _ours."_

Altivo snorts dubiously. He does not doubt they are destined to find El Dorado, or at least the city at the source of the legend. Cortes shall burn it all the same, tear down its temples and throw the survivors in chains. But these demons are parasites, leeching off Spanish greed. It is utter arrogance for them to think they stand a snowball's chance in hell of breaching that barrier alone.

Then again, they're demons. Arrogance is in their nature. And they are too young to realize heathen deities have never, ever meant empty idols of false gods ripe for the taking.

Miguel grins hopefully at him. "Well, old boy? With us you'd get your gold and glory."

"And your master," Tulio sneers. "But that's what you live for, isn't it?"

Altivo rolls his eyes. Of course he's with them. What other choice is there but withering away on this beach?

"Splendid!" Miguel laughs. Like an eager child he takes the blade and hacks through vines until he actually reaches a path. He and Tulio barrel blindly through the undergrowth, unaware of the boundary they've crossed.

Altivo shakes his head after them. This power is old and subtle, so unlike the ostentatious might of Heaven and Hell. But Altivo is not so blind. He considers the kicked, irate serpent slithering back into the jungle and the little armored rat studying him long and hard.

The god glances quizzically from the blundering demons back to him. He shrugs back as best he can.

The god's muzzle splits into a mischievous smirk.

Altivo goes along anyway. _He's_ not the one with a target painted on his back. Whatever happens, he'll still find people at the end of this trail. People that will find some use for horses, whether for burden or hunting, until Cortes comes to claim all that he believes rightfully his.

He hopes against hope Miguel at least makes it out of this only suitably humbled and not smote. He actually likes the little worm.

* * *

The jungle _sucks._ Really, the moisture and steamy heat are all it has going for it. Fanged fish, ruthless leeches, and clothes-stealing monkeys all belong _in hell._ Not up here! Demons _torment,_ not _are tormented!_

It sucks so much that Tulio spends most time sulking in his snake skin. At least this way he can devour most of what annoys him. Since this mess is all Miguel's fault it's Miguel he leaves to have hands for map-reading and sword-swinging and horse-riding. Tulio just sits on his shoulders because the stupid horse bucks him off he has the gall to slither directly on his skin.

Worst is the feeling of being watched. With Miguel as the sunny distraction Tulio slips into the shadows to try hunting down their stalker. To no avail. All he smells are jungle smells, without the brimstone undertone that they're being menaced by one of their own.

Stupid pagans. They're on the same side... at least until Cortes melts all their idols down and Tulio feasts on their followers, but in this world it's adapt or die.

Then again this is still a godless world. The streams don't yet know to burn them as they cross. The leeches and nightmare fish simply don't discriminate against demons.

Despite himself Tulio gets eager as they near the journey's end. He starts snatching the map from Miguel so lead the way, even if it means dealing with the chafe of human skin and hands. His partner doesn't protest. The lazy bastard spends the ride coiled around his shoulders, either dozing or doing with his tongue that makes Tulio almost steer Altivo into a tree. Part of the fun is being sneaky in how much they can get away with, because the stallion bucks them both off in disgust if they take things too far.

The trail leads them into a valley shrouded with mist. Human eyes are shit. So are snake senses. Invisible eyes press down upon them from everywhere. Part of Tulio insists there have been people here recently but the moisture is just too damn thick to get a solid read on things.

It's damn coincidence Altivo bumps into the last landmark. Tulio cocks his head at it. For a pagan idol it's rather innocuous, two gentle-eyed men on a horse-faced serpent. Shouldn't the men at least be doing something sinful or something?

"Miguel. Miguel, wake up."

"Hmph?" The snake on his shoulders jerks awake. "Did we find it?"

"Oh, yeah. We found it."

Miguel uncurls, rising as high as he can. His head swivels from the idol to the desolate waterfall beyond. "Fantastic! Where is it?"

"Right here. Apparently 'El Dorado' is native for _'great, big rock._ '" Tulio smirks. "Cortes dragged his men all the way here for _this._ It's gonna be a bloodbath when they find it."

Miguel slumps like a kicked puppy. "That's... That's nice."

Tulio rolls his eyes. "You weren't expected an actual city of gold, were you?"

"W-Well... it would've been something nice to see, right?"

"Yeah," his partner sighs. "More sustainable in the long term. But at least we're gonna be eating good when..."

The wind shifts, bringing with it the stink of fear and desperation. Tulio inhales deeply, mouth watering and fangs out, twisting as he tries to locate dinner.

She slams into them head-first, falling flat on her back. Altivo rears up and whinnies his outrage, making her press into the dirt even further. Tulio stares as Miguel uncoils himself for a closer look. Lust wars with greed as he considers telling his partner to hold off for a bit.

Then they're slapped by the wrathful, odoriferous cloud chasing after her.

"Hey, horse!" Tulio hisses, snapping Altivo's reins to startle him out of his shock. "It's time to be running now!"

By the time Altivo tries to bolt it's too late. The warriors round the corner, throwing up their spears in shock. Tulio clings to the horse's back as he rears up, flailing hooves at least keeping the spear tips at bay. Miguel coils tightly around him to not get thrown off. He hisses like a cobra, hood wide out. Maybe he can spit burning venom into one or two faces before the volley of spears impales them.

So Tulio tries a winning smile, despite the warriors gaping at his fangs. But it's not like he can smooth talk their way out of this until he has a damn clue what they speak.

The thief on the ground stirs. Reflexively he turns to her. Both horse and demons gape when she kneels in full supplication, offering up her stolen bundle to them.

The head warrior's gaze flicks from the idol to them before his expression settles. The spear thrust into their faces is clear invitation to follow him into the waterfall and the boats beyond.

The cavern is long and dark, sparsely lit by torches. Even in this shape his eyes amplify the light far better than mortal senses can. Tulio casually brushes his fingers on cool water. Even down here running water doesn't burn.

"Swim for it?" he hisses, too low for humans to hear.

"Don't be stupid," Miguel breathes derisively. Unspoken is the thought Tulio won't make it. Humans are nowhere near slippery as snakes.

Tulio's mouth twists bitterly. In the water he'd be a target like this. He can't shift so swift, not without tangling himself in a pile of skin.

The selfless thing would be to insist Miguel swims while he can. Instead Tulio's fingers curl deeper into his coils. No way is he dying here alone. Into this world he came with Miguel. Together they'll leave it, for hell or whatever void waits for them.

They sail forth from darkness into heaven on earth. El Dorado is a truth punctuated by every golden pyramid that pierces the sky. Tulio hunches into himself as the scrutiny upon them magnifies a thousandfold. There are eyes in the sky and the trees and waters, powers beyond their sight. Even more distressing are the _humans_ gawking at them like beasts in a menagerie.

Tulio's instincts scream to shed his skin and slip into the waters, to wait until cover of darkness to snatch a victim and make himself an anonymous face better suited to these crowds. Self-consciously he retracts his fangs and hisses for Miguel to not breathe another word.

Miguel's best defense is to cling tight enough to suffocate. Tulio's is to calmly climb atop Altivo. The slight elevation above the crowd at least offers the illusion of safety.

His hope falls even further when they are clearly led to a nice big square to make the exorcism nice and public.

"Well," he mutters, "it was nice working with you, partner."

"Tulio, I just want you to know... I'm sorry about that girl in Barcelona. And the groom in Madrid. And-"

"Behold! As the prophecies foretold, the time of judgement is now!" Tulio braces for the thunderbolt. "Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

Despite themselves they slowly turn around, even if to gaze upon divinity is to almost certainly turn into pillars of salt or something. There are no wrathful deities behind them. There's none to their left or right. Only the ominously smoking volcano, but maybe it just always does that.

They glance back to each other. Miguel smirks in smug contemplation. Tulio's mouth goes dry.

Their eyes dart down to Tzekel-Kan, who proudly introduces himself as _their_ devoted high priest and speaker for the gods. Is he blind to the taint any true holy man should sense? Does he not notice the fangs and slitted eyes or the _giant honking snake?_ Unless pagans do indeed worship demons after all...

Tulio manages a greeting as he considers Tzekel-Kan. The man is a walking testament to wrath and pride, is no stranger to envy or gluttony. Maybe he is the sort of priest anointed in devil worship. Maybe it's just the usual brand of hypocrisy. The large man who humbly introduces himself as Chief Tannabok unfortunately points toward the latter. Tulio's nose wrinkles at the scent of a truly good soul, humble and just.

"What names may we call you?"

Tulio considers the long list of those he's stolen for himself over the centuries. He's on the verge of grandly introducing himself when Miguel confusedly announces his name is Miguel. Miguel, the giant talking snake. He refrains from an eye roll when he just declares himself Tulio.

"And we are called... Miguel and Tulio!"

True enough, Tulio sourly concedes. They're near the bottom of the profane ladder, not Princes of Hell with a thousand dread names recorded in forbidden grimoires.

They free on Chief Tannabok's question of how long they intend to stay in this city, truly called Manoa. Tulio is still considering how to politely phrase 'until your city is melted and you're all sold into slavery' when Tzekel-Kan at realizes something is amiss. His furious eyes fixate on... the mortal, temple-robbing thief. And not the demons that have so easily adapted the guise of godhood. The great Princes of Hell may still appear fair angels, when trying to tempt the self-righteous down their path.

Tulio almost whistles at the baldfaced lie she thinks up. It does nothing to abate the stink of falsehood and blasphemy, but he's curious enough to politely ask the high priest to release her. He smirks inside when Tzekel-Kan obeys _him,_ grits his teeth and sends the thief to return her 'tribute' to its rightful place.

"My lords, why now do you choose to visit us?"

"Enough!" Tzekel-Kan snarls. "You do not question... the gods!"

He clearly means himself, but this is one lie Miguel is eager to feed. He flares his hood out and draws himself up like an avenging angel. "That's right! Do not question us or we shall have to unleash our great and terrible power! And you don't want that!"

Not exactly biblical, but it gets the point across. Or so Tulio thinks until Tzekel-Kan reverses the script. "Well, yes! We do!"

"You do?" Miguel repeats blankly, deflating somewhat. He turns to his partner in earnest confusion. "D-Don't they usually pray to avoid... well, that?"

"Of course we do!" Tzekel-Kan waves emphatically at his own chief, who rolls his eyes to high heaven. "Visit your wrath upon this nonbeliever! Show us the truth of your divinity!"

Both demons cock their heads at Chief Tannabok. He is bewildered enough to tilt his own back. The change of angle does nothing to change the obvious.

"Why?" Miguel asks blankly.

"Yeah," Tulio finds himself agreeing. "What's the worst you've done, chief? Love the marriage bed a little too much?"

"...Is that a sin?"

Tulio shrugs back to Miguel. "Depends on how chaste the school of thought is, you know?"

Still, they are creatures of sin. And Tannabok is of no nutritional value whatsoever. The chief still quails somewhat. Most mortals do when faced with beings who see into every dark corner of their soul. "P-Perhaps so, my lords? Miya and I are older now and have been blessed with many children, but every day I seem to find her more beautiful than the day before. And-"

"Then you confess!" Miguel interjects brightly, before any details of a stranger's sex life come up. "No harm done!"

Chief Tannabok and most in the crowd glance at the volcano. Its peak... stops smoking.

As one the demons swivel back to the edible one of the bunch. Tzekel-Kan's eyes widen as he falls beneath their predatory stares. "O all-knowing lords! Let me show you to your temple!"

They plaster on fake smiles over their flinching. Temples are holy places, older than churches and mosques. All burn profane presence that dares intrude upon holy ground. But this is one con they're too deep in to deny now.

Altivo relentlessly trots over to the steps of the tallest temple in Manoa. Tulio eases off his back, slow and terrified. He doesn't spontaneously combust with the first step and Miguel doesn't crumble into ash so they keep climbing.

They brace for the divine wrath to build the higher they descend but only expectant emptiness awaits them. This is no true holy ground, only an open space still seeking consecration. Part of Tulio wants to write off the gods of Manoa as nonexistent. His survival instincts scream that is a terrible idea.

Tzekel-Kan proposes a dawn ceremony and Chief Tannabok a feast for that very night. Naturally they claim both.

When they're both gone Tulio slumps in boneless relief. Miguel slithers off his shoulders, tongue flicking.

"Hello!" he calls brightly.

The thief from earlier squeaks and jerks out of hiding. She falls in full supplication and proceeds to spin prayers, half-desperate compliment, half bullshit, and all genuine fear for her life. God must hear millions of prayers like hers every day.

Tulio tries to bask in it. He takes a step back, faintly sickened. "Stop," he grits out. "Stop it... please."

The frantic chatter cuts off in bewilderment. The thief gapes up at them both before a white bulk forces its way between them, snorting and stamping the stones ominously.

"Easy, old boy," Miguel soothes as he retreats a respectful distance back. "I believe this is all one big misunder-"

"Chill out, horse!" Tulio butts in. "No one's eating her."

"I-I appreciate, my lords!"

"Please," Miguel demurs, trustingly sticking his head between Altivo's ruthless hooves. "Call me Miguel!"

"Miguel!" Tulio blurts out indignantly.

_"What,_ Tulio? She lied for us!"

"To save her own skin!"

"Which makes her a kindred spirit," Miguel retorts smugly. "I'm on a first name basis with those."

Altivo retreats in bewilderment as the thief raises herself up. "Chel," she offers eventually. "My name is Chel." Her eyes, dark and bright, fixate on travel-worn clothing. "Would you appreciate help in finding... more suitable clothing...?"

"Tulio," Tulio supplies wearily. "That... would be appreciated."

Chel bows her head and hastens off deeper into the temple. Tulio wastes no time in unbuttoning a filthy vest. It and the shirt are fabric until they peel away from his person. They crumble like the old skins they truly are before moldering into dust. Miguel squirms with a molt far less pleasant.

Tulio frowns at the face emerging. "Really?"

"What?" Miguel counters smugly as he wriggles his shoulders free, blond beard and all. "What's gold hair next to a giant talking snake? I don't see _you_ changing your face."

Tulio huffs and doesn't grant him the dignity of an answer. He hasn't had a need to change this face since making it over a thousand damn years ago. No reason to change it now unless they need to squirm away from a con gone very, very wrong.

Chel returns to Miguel half-way done. She gapes at his nude torso before politely dropping her clothes and going off to get more. She handles herself heroically, save for the long look back over her shoulder. Being demons, they of course leer back.

"Aren't gods supposed deliver people _from_ temptation?" Tulio retorts.

"I'm not that type of god," Miguel purrs.

His partner is deliberating over earrings while Tulio is still struggling with tying the damn knot to the cloth. Miguel leers like it's a deliberate call for 'help.' Any other time Tulio would be willing to accept that kind of hand. But today greed overwhelms lust. It's not every damn day a feast is held in a demon's honor.

"Could really use a hand here!" Tulio hisses.

"Let me," Chel volunteers.

Tulio is grateful. He groans as her hands linger too long at his waist. "Can I _please, please_ eat first?"

Chel smartly steps back. "That... would be best for all of us."

Tulio and Miguel prance out before their adoring public. Well, a public with tight, frantic smiles. Tulio takes it anyway, because what the hell else does he have going for him?

Chief Tannabok offers up a golden bowl laden with wine. Tulio perks up. Getting the crowd drunk should put their fears at ease. It'll be easier to suss out a meal that way, lure them off in the dead of night.

And easier still when these people expect it of him. He's just a god devouring the impure, after all.

Human food eases the ache of a physical body without truly satisfying it. Tulio still downs the offering for a quick buzz. He frowns thoughtfully as it goes down, licking his lips.

The vintage is more sour than he's used too. The headiness of alcohol is still there, fortified by... something. Fear is a flavor he's long used to. It's a byproduct of their eating habits. But it's bolstered by another taste, sweeter than any sin he's had.

Miguel takes the second bowl. He also flinches back at its flavor before his eyes light up. He grins at Tulio. Together they down a second bowl and ten more after it.

Somewhere between those libations are offerings of fruit, ripe red melons and bitter cactus, lush golden apples and peppers spicy as hellfire. In the Old World they sit in his stomach like fillers, easing the ache between real meals. But their juices are ripe with the same strange flavor in the wine. His stomach and deeper pits of him stop gurgling.

Late in the night, Tulio is dizzily aware of sweaty sin beneath cigar smoke and pungent incense. There are hundreds in this crowd, pressed in close to each other, and stripped of inhibition. It's easy hunting.

Miguel laughs and grabs his hand for another dance. They left grace behind a long time ago but the people here are even drunker than they are.

No hunger haunts him. Utterly full, Tulio laughs, and lurches after him.

* * *

The morning before, Chel rose from her humble mat without any sleep at all, for her mind had raced all night long with thoughts of her escape and the terrible consequences of her capture.

Today she blinks awake with the clearest head she's had in years. There's no pounding hangover or heart-pounding panic at the acolytes of Tzekel-Kan gaping down at her. She smiles serenely up at them, heart full and utterly content. She rests, perfectly nude, in a bed like clouds among the languid coils of the gods. In the pre-dawn light it takes some patience to untangle herself from them.

The scales she had glimpsed from Miguel's molt the night before had been dull and brown. The patterns on them are the same, now vivid emerald. In the dark she fancies Tulio's are midnight blue, rich and deep. Even gods must shed their skins from time to time. She grins at the thought she has refreshed them as much as they have her, propriety be damned.

Several of the older acolytes gawk at her with a shock quick giving way to scandalized outrage. She stares them down, unblinking as a serpent, until _they_ avert their eyes.

Here Chel stands, chosen by the gods, who have peered into the depths of her soul and found no sin before forgiveness. She has been held by them and held them in turn. What does she have to fear now?

The acolytes ignore her in favor of trying to quietly lift the gods into the litter. None of them are steeped in sin as Tzekel-Kan. Still they have abetted his sacrifices. Their hands have dragged screaming souls from lines of tribute and held them down before the Jaguar God's offer. Stained with the blood of her brother, of gods know how many others, their hands rile divinity. They stir with ominous hisses until the guiltiest acolytes flinch away.

"Easy, boys," she murmurs. Miguel stills at her touch. Tulio's eyes blaze before they drift back into slumber. "Not yet."

Under her guidance the gods go into the litter without a murmur of protest.

Chel's clothes lie in tatters with the sheets, an old skin shed and discarded. Not about to squeeze into a self much too small to fit, she deliberates over her choices before selecting a gown of rich red and white. The gods and their bearers follow in her stead, walk in the petals she casts for them.

Tzekel-Kan bristles at the sight of her. He lets it go, for he has far bigger things on his mind this morning.

"Good morning, my lords!" he cries, foolishly sticking his head into a den of hungry serpents. They hiss irately after him when he whirls to an anxious crowd. "The gods have awakened!"

Miguel and Tulio slither out, their scales resplendent despite the early light. They raise up from the ground to regard the cheering crowd. Then their stares snap to Tzekel-Kan.

"The gods deserve a proper tribute! The beginning of a new era, the dawning of a new age... demands... _sacrifice!"_

Tzekel-Kan's tribute is a man of Chel's people, bound and drugged into complete complacency. He is not a particularly pious man, she sees, nor a just man. He has ignored his family one too many times and envied after the good fortune his sister made in her trade. He looked away when Tzekel-Kan called upon his friend's daughter for tribute, when his was in the same line. But he is not a wicked man, who has killed or took what could never be forgiven. He is just... _a man._

Miguel's hood flares. His judgement is venom, red and bright as magma. Tzekel-Kan screams, falling to his knees as it strikes his eyes.

Chel ignores him. She kneels by the bound man. His ropes snap like strings when she tugs at them. He leans heavily against her side, some sense returning to his eyes as she guides him away from the edge to Xibalba. She glances purposefully to Chief Tannabok, who calmly but quickly sees the site evacuated.

Tzekel-Kan is still cursing and writhing in the dirt when the last backs filter out of sight. Only Chel stands behind, to see judgement done.

The Serpent Gods slither forth to claim their tribute.

The screams are over quickly.

Lord Tulio, Lord Miguel, and Lady Chel need only for their people to try being better than they were the days before, to admit past shames with honesty. Tribute of food, wine, and gold is appreciated, but not vital. Serpent Gods subsist on something more... vital, what they decide so themselves.

The best hunting is always beyond their borders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended for this to go on a bit longer, for Tulio and Miguel to do more questionably moral things before Manoa and Chel grew on them hard. They decided to eat Tzekel-Kan a lot sooner than planned XD
> 
> Demons pursue the wicked and unrighteous. So do avenger gods :p
> 
> Salt and running water are both traditional warders of evil in Old World traditions. And then they wind up in the New World!


	18. dream (of better things)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before Chel intends to run away from her fate forever, a new dream finds her.
> 
> Tulio and Miguel have dreams too. But it's never too late to find a new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed another short one!

Tonight is Chel's last night in Manoa. Maybe she'll be home free by this time tomorrow. Maybe she'll be enduring eternal agony down in Xibalba, dragged before Tzekel-Kan's offer like the thief and traitor she will become. Either way, this will all be over.

Chel doubts she'll sleep at all. Still she tries. She _wants_ adventure, all the better things she'll never see as an acolyte destined for sacrifice. If she is to survive tomorrow than she needs energy to outrun Chima and all his warriors. Her big brother, strong from a life in the fields and swift from a lifetime of racing friends, had once ran the same route is she about to too. He had escaped Manoa only to be chased down like a dog, dragged back to be sacrificed before the Jaguar God.

After hours of tossing and turning on her flimsy sleeping mat, sleep finds Chel after all. It is part of the Jaguar God's domain, for he stalks between death and dreams. Tzekel-Kan inhales herbs and incense to hunt down his god in visions of omen.

To Chel the Jaguar God comes only in her nightmares. She escapes the city and the winding cavern beyond only because the jungle is his domain, his favorite hunting ground. She pounds down the roaring river with a black shadow hounding every step. His paws thud heavily against the earth. His breath reeks of decay and her brother's blood.

Chel knows the chase fruitless. Still she runs. She'll run until those obsidian fangs sink into her throat and bring her back to reality.

Ahead looms the stele of the Dual Gods, marking the formal boundary of Manoa's domain. The jungle beyond looks no less dark or misty. Yet a sudden, desperate hope swoops over her heart. Chel's feet pound faster on slippery stone. If she makes it to the idol, then-

Sensing her intentions, the Jaguar God bellows his fury. He springs.

Chel leaps the rest of the way. As she slides past the idol the Jaguar God's furious shriek cuts off.

She does not fall into jungle. Gone is the shadowy fog. The stars above shine cold and clear. The looming trees have vanished, replaced by peaks with only patchy little forests. Even the very air is different, drier and alive with the songs of foreign insects.

Chel stares. She has never before seen the world outside the sheltered valley by Lake Parime. All she has are the fanciful descriptions of traders and travelers. Certainly the lands their accounts painted are nothing like this one.

On the bright side, nothing here wants to eat her. She left the Jaguar God behind in his jungle. The shapes in the shadows move differently. The largest ones walk by, ignoring her presence entirely. The smaller ones eye her curiously, eyes bright in the starlight, but scurry away the moment she turns to glance at them. Aside from the skittish shades, Chel is utterly alone.

Except for the faint sound of music drifting over the distant peaks, like no pipes she has ever heard before.

Too curious to wake up now, Chel follows the song. At first she carefully picks her bare feet over sharp and jagged rocks. Then the landscape obligingly shifts. Now she walks a dirt road, narrow and winding. The route is marked by stones. Some are simple cairns, piled high. Others are full statues, with elaborate faces and surprisingly well-endowed.

Chel walks an hour, two thousand years. In dreams time is simply whatever it wants to be. So is a distance that is somewhere between a few mountain peaks and endless miles. She passes razed temples and overgrown grottoes. Whatever presence lived within them is gone, having abandoned its home when its followers had.

When Chel at last lays eyes on the musician, she stops cold in her tracks. Her mind can't settle on one face for him and so spews up a thousand. One moment he's an imp-faced boy and the next a man with a wild beard and curling horns. All that remains constant is his song, slow and sorrowful, and the graceful fingers that dance across the pipes.

"Hello."

Blue eyes, deep as the nocturnal sky above, snap open. The musician's form at least settles on the shape of a man. His face is long and elegant, framed by stubble and waves of black hair. His clothing is more hazy, from just a tiny cape to flowing robes, but the lithe, masculine form beneath remains consistent.

"Um, hey." The man lowers his pipes. His gaze flickers to Chel, roving over her curves with an expression between pleasant surprise and utter bewilderment. "Is... is this one of _those_ dreams after all?"

Chel appraises the man before her; exotic but handsome regardless. Eh, she's had weirder sex dreams before.

But never the night before looming peril. So she crosses her arms firmly. "This is _my_ dream, thank you, and I've got higher priorities to get to." Mostly in perfecting her escape plan. Somehow.

" _Y-Your_ dream?" the man squawks indignantly. "Excuse me, but you're a manifestation of _my_ self-consciousness. Granted, those almost always take of the shapes of those I've fucked over most, and you don't remind me of anyone that will haunt my nightmares forever. Not yet, at least." He frowns down at her, sitting up from the rock pile he leans against. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Chel," she asserts. Shouldn't her own damn brain know who she is? Then it's her turn to frown at him. "And you are?"

"Dreaming in the middle of a jungle," he answers bluntly. "You... you wouldn't happen to be from the golden one, would you? The golden king of cities?"

"If by Manoa, and you almost certainly are, then yes."

"Oh. _Oh."_ His pipes slip through numb fingers, clattering down from the stones and lost to the dream. "It-It can't be, not after all this..."

Between one moment and the next he stands a hairsbreadth from her, blue eyes wide, utterly desperate and utterly terrified. Chel stands there, spellbound by their depths. She does not pull away from the warm, shaking hands that find her face. Or the forehead that gently bends down to bump against her own.

Across dream and distance, two hearts skip.

Chel jolts back even as her own hands clutch his in a death grip.

"Chel," he breathes, tears springing up in those impossible eyes. "Y-You're _real."_

"Real as you are," she insists numbly, even though she knows that is not the truth. She briefly considers adding his proper title, but they are above and beyond such formality here, where souls may embrace the powers of the waking world.

He huffs an incredulous laugh. "You're even realer. In all the ways that count. Real enough to..." He pulls back, face hopeful even as it braces for heartbreak. "Chel, come with me. Please."

"Always."

Her fellow dreamer smiles tearfully, squeezing her hand to ensure she won't evaporate beneath him. Then he springs down the mountainside. They glide through forgotten wilderness and forsaken groves, ever to the east, to where the horizon glows ominous red.

Finally they stop before a grand palace. Its walls are shadow and its columns carved of days gone by. Chel clings to the dreamer's hand as he leads through a party long past. The guests are ghosts, only memory and mist. They dance without sound and cluster together gossiping only silence. Their words and faces exist now only in a mind not Chel's own. The only true things here are the stone floor beneath her feet, the dreamer's hand in hers, and the strong song that wends out from the heart of the celebration.

 _He's_ the center of attention. Of course he is. He's the only one that's real here, hands dancing along the strings of a strange instrument as the ghosts dip and reel to his tune. He laughs at jokes only they can hear, booms compliments and snarky comebacks that fall on deaf ears. For all this musician is solid his faces are that same confusing jumble. All are beautiful, but also cruel.

He grins lewdly at the sight of them. "Ah," he purrs in satisfaction. "One of _those_ dreams then." Around him the dancers shift in their stride, sexless shapes writhing against his form. "Come on in. There's plenty to go round."

The first dreamer sighs. "Get a hold of yourself, you beautiful idiot." The second jerks back, green eyes blinking in bewilderment. "It's not one of _those_ dreams. It's the other kind."

"W-What? B-But that's..."

The second dreamer groans, raising a hand to his temple. The palace and its guests evaporate. All that remains are the ruined foundations of it, beneath their feet, and one very confused man. He's shorter than the first, his unbound cloud of hair sheared back to his ears and his bare face now trimmed by a golden beard. He looks kinder with it, more distinguished. His emerald eyes, no less vivid, gawk at them.

"You... You're here. You're really here."

"Of course I am, partner." The first dreamer raises his free hand to caress that bearded chin without ever letting go of Chel. "Where else would I be?"

The blond dreamer splutters happily before his gaze rivets to Chel. His eyebrows furrow as he glances to the imminent sunrise, eyes gazing into a horizon she cannot see. "I... I don't think we're supposed to meet you."

"Too bad." She cheerfully sticks out her open hand. "Call me Chel."

Tentatively the man offers his own. He is warm as the sun, solid as conviction.

Reverently he bends to breathe an answer into her ear; half-prayer, half-truth, and all utter exaltation. His partner groans before stooping to do the same. He smells of sex and the wild woods.

Chel grins back. "Nice to meet you. Can't wait to do it again."

Then the blood-red sun breaches the horizon.

She blinks awake in her own bed with an aching back and salt-stained cheeks. She bares her teeth to the new day as her plan at last settles into its final stage.

* * *

Chel runs for her life, for the future itself. She makes it down from the temple and all the way through the winding cavern, bursting out of the waterfall in a shower of droplets. Like hell is she failing now. Chima and his warriors are not so daunting, when she ran this gauntlet just the night before hunted by war incarnate. 

She's a lowly acolyte born to a family of proven traitors. Any words she speaks will be derided at best or decried as heresy at the worst. So Chel must forge her own damn truth, her tribute tucked snugly beneath her arm. Chima and his warriors just don't know that yet.

At the idol of the Dual Gods Chel turns. This time the jungle and her pursuers don't fall away. Still she grins. Upon the wind incarnate, her dreamers beam back. She'll know their faces forever and always.

Chel kneels, unfolding the rag that protects her tribute. Chima finds her in a perfect recreation of the idol, the faithful speaker offering up proof of her faith to the Dual Gods and their divine herald. Beneath the stern gazes of divinity the warriors are swift to drop their spears.

"I tried to tell you," she tells them sweetly. "My only wish is to serve the gods. Lord Tulio and Lord Miguel came to me in a vision. It is my job to offer this tribute and lead them home, to exalt their names and their mercy to the ages."

And lead them Chel does. She stands tall and proud when she declares the prodigal gods returned home at long last. They shine all the brighter with her praise and the city's fledgling faith.

Tzekel-Kan's attempts to usurp the situation are swiftly drowned out. It is _Chel_ that dreamed a way out of sacrifice and the Jaguar God's tyranny. It is she who shouts it from the rooftops, to lift her gods from dreams and into every aspect of the waking world.

Chel and her gods forge a new future, bright and golden.

The Jaguar God makes do with death and dreams, prowling after what will never be his. He is only a nightmare, fearful in the moment but utterly forgotten in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermes is a god of omens in dreams :p And Apollo a prophecy god.


	19. mighty (and powerful)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before all of Spain feared them as man-eating monsters, they were guardian deities, and respected as such. 
> 
> A certain golden city needs one a lot more than it does the other. Fortunately for them dragons have always been protective of their hoards.
> 
> Or a dragon AU, because my muse never sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna do a Spanish!dragon AU even before I ran into the theory that the modern, monstrous cuelebre was a reinterpretation of a more benevolent pagan deity through Christianizing the old tales. Learning that only threw my muse into overdrive.

"Seven!"

Seven sounds fair to the sailors playing. It's Tulio calling the shots, and everyone needs a lucky number.

Tulio's dice always roll seven.

"All right!" Miguel cries gleefully. Their joy is never fake, not when _gold_ is involved. So of course they dance around and sing their little gold song like idiots, Miguel strumming his lyre like a man possessed. Their haul is enough to keep them fed and sleeping under warm roofs for weeks. Or enough for one hell of a night, wine and lovers and all. It is a drop in the ocean to what they once called theirs. It is the center of their world.

When the sailor growls for one more roll, Tulio of course goads him into giving up his greatest of treasures. His stomach grumbles at the possibility. Then his lip curls at the yellowed paper waved in his face. "A map?"

"A map to the wonders of the New World!"

Tulio's disappointment slides into outright disdain. Seville is a harbor fifty miles inland up the River Guadalquivir, where they might con every ship that comes into port without ever smelling salt on the breeze, the siren song of a home no longer there. There is nowhere left to fly to and their wings withered away centuries ago.

Miguel, the idiot, happily unfurls the map. The idiot has always latched onto the weirdest things. Tulio was driven from a trove of silver and gold. Miguel still sighs over a hoard of pottery and lyres. Not that they can afford to hoard much of anything anymore. Drifters can't afford to be weighed down. They have each other, their bare necessities, and the gold they claw from this thankless world only to spend again for their own survival.

"Excuse us for one moment, please," he manages for the impatient sailor for Miguel drags his head down into strange, useless pictures.

They've had a plan that's kept them going over a thousand years, long after their compatriots were poisoned by leaden bread loaves or slain by enterprising saints. Or _had archangels shove flaming spears down their throats._

There is no room in that plan for Miguel's flights of fancy. There is no flight, period.

"El Dorado," Miguel breathes as reverently as they once had _Mar Cuajada_. "The city of gold. This could be our destiny, our fate."

Tulio rolls his eyes and retorts if he believed in fate he wouldn't be playing with loaded dice.

Fair is a proper tribute to keep a town and its whole valley safe, the crops well-tended and the devastating storms warded off when the crops are at their weakest. Fair is a bull's blood shed before his lair when he needs the power to turn back a drought or heal a blight. Then his people thought it fair to cast him from the home their ancestors had made for home, to call him a man-eater so that they might erect a church to a God that demanded only prayer and a few hours in mass each week.

Loaded dice are the fairest thing in the world. They're the only power he can guarantee on to make up on a thousand years of missed meals.

Miguel pulls his stupid pout, the one that charmed all the xanas back in the day. It's Tulio's fatal weakness.

Despite it all, the second of the sailor's dice lands a four when it was spinning towards five. Only when Tulio is stooping for their self-made tribute do the traitor dice slide from his shirt. They're forced to flee in utter disgrace, abandoning their gold as distraction to save their own skins.

Not that it saves them from somehow ending up stowed away on Cortes' ship for a one-way trip to Cuba. Because that's just how their fucking lives go.

* * *

Altivo's nostrils flare in alarm when the cargo grows heavy with smoke and sulfur even before the stowaways foolhardily out themselves to the whole expedition. He relaxes at a mistake that proves themselves idiots by nature and not in some insidious plot. Underneath that first noxious wave they smell of wood and stone, salt and the air after a rainstorm.

The stallion cranes his head over the crowd as they are clasped in irons. In the lamplight their eyes reflect a shine no human has before they are dragged down to Cortes.

Not demons at all then. Just dragons. And the proper sort at that.

When the activity on deck dies down Altivo wanders over to the hole into the brink to see for himself. Cortes' pride allows his prize warhorse free range of the deck, even if he still must endure the indignity of the bridle when there is nowhere left to run but the open sea. Altivo peers down. The dragons peer up. Their slit pupils dilate even as their mouths drop in shock.

"Impossible," the blue-eyed one croaks.

"Lord of the Winds," the golden one rasps, tears in his eyes. His tongue isn't Castilian. Hell, it's not anything Roman. These are words last uttered among the Astures, before the Latin tongue of their conquerors silenced it forever. "It's you, isn't it?"

Altivo's ears prick. Not his oldest of titles and not in the oldest of tongues known to him, but no less true. He nickers gently down into the hold to ask the same of them.

Quietly the darker one introduces himself as Tulio, an alias that must have been Tullius at one point or another, before Latin in Iberia took on a life of its own. More proudly the golden one declares himself to be Miguel, for the same archangel that struck down the last great dragon of their kind. Bold of him to steal a holy name all for himself. Stolen names are all they have, once the people stole their truest selves.

In their prime they must have watched only small towns or valleys, rooted to one cave or grotto by their followers. Those names would have been easily effaced from pedestals or smashed into oblivion, dying forever with the last mortals to know the name. There is a reason most _culebres_ survive only as nameless beasts slain long ago as their peoples embraced Christ and erected churches after tearing down their old shrines. It's miracle enough these two are slinking by.

The dragons at first discuss half-baked escape attempts. Altivo eavesdrop and discovers no reason to free them from their cell. All of their plans would end inevitably result in their horrible demise, be it by drowning or dying of dehydration in a rowboat. There is no _Mar Cuajada_ for them to fly away to. Now the Spaniards know what promised land lies beyond the sea, and it is one their ancestors would have never called such. The New World is one for gold and glory, with no place for old souls and old gods to find their rest.

Eventually their bickering lapses into silence, save Tulio's listless banging against the hold. They are lost souls, adrift from their hoards and their stolen gains. Altivo anxiously listens for news of Cuba's impending approach. To them the island may begin a prison, but it is also a chance to ground themselves and regain the strength to eventually slip back home to Spain. He shall help them only when the island is in sight and before they have a solid chance, no matter how slim.

Then fate, the fickle bitch, drops an apple into the hold.

"Altivo," Miguel coaxes. "Lord of the Winds. I come bearing tribute."

Altivo is drawn to the shiny red fruit like a moth to the flame. Cortes confines even him to the indignity of half-rations. And no apple offered by Pablo will ever carry the weight of _reverence,_ no matter how faint and warped by pity.

Miguel withdraws his apple. "Sorry, old boy. We need a pry bar first. Something, _anything,_ for us to prove our faith in you."

Altivo snorts furiously, but his jaw slacks when the dragon waves the apple again, just under his nose.

Altivo had been a god whose influence had once spread wide across Iberia while they were two humble local deities. Now they are men with voices and opposable thumbs, and he is a horse always slavering at the next chance to serve a great purpose. He doesn't want the damn apple; he _needs_ it like he needs the wind and wide open spaces.

Haughtily he snatches the keys from the belt of an unsuspecting sailor and drops them down instead. These idiots have no idea that salvation might be a scant few days away and Altivo no way of telling them. If they pray for the means to their own destruction, who is he to deny them?

In the dead of night the dragons slip their cell. Altivo waits. They load up a longboat with stolen applies. Altivo waits longer. When the idiots are preparing to lower their vessel he buts Miguel's back imperiously. These idiots can't go rowing off to sudden death without first paying him his due.

"Oh, Altivo," the dragon breathes. "Oh, thank you, old boy. Listen, if we can ever return the favor-"

"For fuck's sake, Miguel, hold up your end of the bargain already!"

Even in the dark Altivo can practically see the dragon's face flush. "Right, quite right. Sorry, Altivo."

Carefully he draws the apple from his shirt. To Altivo it shines brighter than the richest ruby. He lunges for it so ravenously that Miguel flinches back. His muzzle butts the apple so hard it bounces off Miguel's head and goes flying after it. Instinctively Altivo leaps after it. Too late does he remember he is not the wind incarnate, not truly. He is a horse, a horse drowning in the sea.

Then he is a horse stranded in a tiny, gods forsaken boat with dragons to even be proper dragons. Hooray for him.

They bob along waves high as hills and weather pounding rain. Mostly they drift in endless doldrums.

One day Miguel squints thoughtfully into the fathomless blue. "Do you reckon it's still down there?"

"No," Tulio drawls, staring moodily up at the sun. The stupid creatures bask in the blazing heat as the next best thing to an actual blaze.

"B-But even the people still believe in it, Tulio! Where else can dragons go, when they grow to a point where the earth rejects them and the sky rages at their presence? What place is there left but the place beneath the sea?"

"No place at all."

Miguel slumps in dejection. He cranes his head up from the water to peer hopefully at Altivo. "Well, old boy? Have you carried any _culebres_ to _Mar Cuajada_ recently?"

The Curdled Sea is indeed a dream truly soured now, beyond any hope of salvation. There are no great dragons and their diamond hoards on the sea floor anymore than there are the souls of the departed. Spaniards reach only heaven or hell with no middle ground between them. Altivo nickers sadly. When Miguel's face crumbles he butts his snout into the dragon's face, so that he might have something to cling to.

As days drift and their supplies dwindle without land in sight, their conversations inevitably curdle to. All dreams do in the end, no matter how impossible they were to begin with.

"Any... regrets?"

"Besides dying? Yeah..." Tulio's hand clutches desperately at thin air, for his hoard is now only a misty memory. "I never... had enough... gold."

Miguel sighs, back leaning against his partner's to keep each other upright. "My biggest regret, besides dying, is... our greatest adventure is over before it even began. We never flew off to see _Mar Cuajada,_ let alone anything beyond our valleys until everything worth seeing was gone. And now no one will even remember us."

"Well, if it's any consolation, Miguel, you made my life... an adventure."

"And if it's any consolation, Tulio, you made... rich."

Altivo, slumped over the prow, rolls his eyes at their melodrama. The only other action is to weep at two ancient companions at least dying side by side, together in death as they've always been in life. And he ain't getting sentimental now.

Sighing into golden sand and snapping his head up to gape at a beach and the verdant jungle beyond certainly changes things. Altivo erupts from the boat with a whinny of joy to kiss the ground. Near slavering a yellowed skull has him galloping back to the boat because Altivo has healthy survival instincts. Dragons, nowhere near sensible as horses, instead pause to ogle the blade buried into a skeleton. Because it is a _gilded_ blade.

Tulio squints down to scratch at it thoughtfully. "That's real gold all right. Now, who the hell left it is a _warning?"_

Miguel's brow furrows at the blade and the eagle-shaped rock nearby. From his shirt he pulls out a weathered map. His eyebrows fly into his hairline as he studies it. "Tulio," he breathes. "Tulio, we've done it!"

Altivo snorts down at the dubious map to El Dorado. What are the odds they got dumped at the start of the trail? But dragons have stomachs bigger than their brains. Miguel need only remind his partner it's a city of gold, where one can pluck gold from the very wells, to sell Tulio on yet another desperate dream.

The stallion rolls his eyes but follows them into the jungle anyway. Really, what else are his options? Swim out to sea until he drowns or sit stubbornly in the boat until he starves? Odds are the closest people around him would find his large, meaty form to be _food_ and not _beast of burden._ He really doesn't want to find out if he recover from that like he used to.

Their first step into the jungle, Miguel unwittingly slices through a hunt, sending a serpent sprawling into the trees and leaving its would-be prey to squint thoughtfully up at them. Altivo shudders at that intelligent gaze. Of course they didn't arrive here by accident. In matters like these there are no such thing as accidents.

* * *

Miguel cooperates likes a good, quiet little human at the spears shoved into his face. His flimsy clothes and naked skin certainly can't deflect pointy sticks like thick, impenetrable scales can, thank you very much. So he and Tulio slip into the waterfall and that boat beyond without fuss. They squint their eyes against the engulfing dark like little weak-eyed humans should. It helps disguise their eyes glow even brighter in the torchlight.

Beyond the radius of light the warriors and the woman thief see little. A dragon's natural habitats is the subterranean deep. The cave system expands endlessly before their dragon eyes but the warriors sail unhesitatingly over smooth dark waters. 

Tulio discreetly bumps his knee. Miguel gives the smallest shake of his head. His gaze strays to Altivo, with a horse's weak eyes and blundering form.

His partner shoves him again. Miguel shoves right back. The thief watches them sharply but the warriors pay no notice.

Tulio still sneaks fingers down to the water's edge. He withdraws them with a sharp hiss. It probably burns icy cold. Miguel rolls his eyes. Obviously this darkness is protected by a power far greater than any minor little dragon. They drown even in neutral waters these days, let alone hostile depths. Even if their blundering mortal forms could escape the spears the heavy force behind this cave would just crush them in a rockfall. At least under the escort of warriors they have the most threadbare excuse of belonging on this boat.

The their boat slips through a green curtain of moss and into heaven on earth.

"El Dorado," they breathe as one.

The temple peaks glitter like golden mountains. Altivo warily draws his tail from a lake teeming with rainbow fish that dwarf their boat.

Miguel drinks in the sights yet even he notices how the people on the riverbanks gawk at them like beasts in a menagerie. Or dragons hauled by a saint before they are slain before their former people as proof of God's power. He certainly concedes with Tulio's growl, too low for human ears.

When their boat docks Altivo is first off. They scramble atop him if only for a few extra feet of height and the illusion of security. The thief settles for cowering at their side. The warriors glaring suspiciously at them would slaughter them all within the first minute they tried bolting the crowd. Even the damned volcano is smoking furiously.

"Well," Tulio sighs in resignation. "It was nice working with you, partner."

"Tulio, I just want you to know..." Too many last minute confessions come to him, so he blurts out the first one. "I'm sorry about that girl in Barcelona." The lovely girl with hai like spun gold, who'd been a xana before apathy and starvation forced her from her spring.

His partner splutters furiously. "So you-you, f-"

"Behold!" Their terrified gazes snap to the high priest looming triumphantly above them. "As the prophecies foretold, the time of judgement is now!"

His tongue is certainly not anything Latin or Celtic, let alone the lost languages that came before. Still Miguel understands, as if some force here is willing to bridge the gaps between them. From the way Tulio and Altivo tense he knows the same to be true for them.

"Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

They cringe, looking for the vengeful deities in question, and see all eyes focused on... themselves. Tulio's face slackens in shock. Miguel's twist in smug consideration.

_Finally._

The priest descends from his perch to bow before them, introducing himself as Tzekel-Kan, _their_ devoted high priest and speaker the gods.

"Hey," Tulio squeaks out.

The crowd parts for another man, larger than Tzekel-Kan, who carries himself in solemn dignity instead of haughty superiority. "I am Chief Tannabok. What names may we call you?"

"I am... Miguel."

His partner cringes. Even Altivo does. But these people take them at his word. So Miguel smirks inside at his greatest theft in a millennium. The saints and angels of the Lord stole his true name long ago. It's only fair he steals the greatest of them all for himself.

Tulio of course introduces himself as Tulio. It's not his memory of their glory days is any better. Miguel is the first to descend from Altivo. He accidentally snags himself in the poor boy's reins, so he grandly throws out his arms and thinks up a distraction. "And they call us... Miguel and Tulio!" Because all of their other epithets these days run the gamut from 'thieves' to 'devils.'

Only in this new tongue it comes out as _Who Is Like God_ and _He of the People_ instead of their names at face value. Which suits them just fine.

"Your arrival has been greatly anticipated," Chief Tannabok begins diplomatically. "My lords, how long will you be staying in Manoa?"

Miguel frowns up at the simmering volcano and their mixed reception here. "I mean, however long you'll have us for. A week, a year. A millennium. That's how it works."

One millennium people pride themselves on their local deities and the next raise up a foreign pantheon over them. Before casting them out completely. They are born by the human heart, make their homes in the heart, and finally die by the heart.

The volcano stops smoking.

Then Tzekel-Kan fixates on the thief. He hauls her out from behind Altivo before she can slip away. "Aha! I see you've captured this temple-robbing thief! How would you have us punish her?"

The thief does not have the grace to admit her crime. Instead she declares she is no thief, but rather sent a vision by the gods to bring them tribute and guide them to their people. Miguel bristles at the baldfaced lie. He remembers being robbed with impunity, his hoard plundered when he was forced to flee in human skin for his very life. But human hands could only carry so much. The vast majority of his treasures are gone forever, lost to memory and mist. But so does he also remember playing human to escape priests and knights. Pride wars with pity, so he turns to his partner to render judgement.

Tulio also stares imperiously down at the thief, who bugs her eyes out in a silent plea. Her desperation is so intense even Miguel's resolve falters. "Release her, don't you think?"

Tzekel-Kan is so stunned he does just that, even if the words are phrased as a delicate question rather than an outright order. He does not realize Tulio is testing boundaries, delving how deep his sudden newfound devotion to them is. But, even though he grits his teeth on his snarl, he sends the thief off to return her tribute rather than drag her to the executioner's block. She is all too happy to comply.

"My lords, why now do you choose to visit us?"

"Enough!" Tzekel-Kan snarls in his chief's face. "You do not question... _the_ _gods."_

Miguel is about to vehemently agree before Tulio elbows him in the rips. No sense in tempting fate. He's lucky his last outburst stopped the volcano instead of goading it into eruption.

He perks up when Tzekel-Kan offers to show them to their temple. Because, hey, _temple._ Better than a fountain. Better than a cave. Certainly better than no home at all.

Miguel's excitement wavers somewhere up the literal mountain of steps. "Makes you glad... we settled on forms with limbs..." he puffs to Tulio as they lag behind their mortal escort. "Imagine climbing up... _this..._ without them."

Tulio's eyes blaze. "With luck we won't be climbing much _ever again_."

Ah. Right. Miguel had thought the transition from slithering to looming on four claws to be earthshaking up until he'd grown wings. Only then had the world truly opened up from two dimensions to three. He wonders when they'll get them back.

By the end they're dragging themselves up the final steps as if wyrms all over again. Of course they've drawn themselves up into perfect pictures of poise when their new followers turn around. Past experience has painfully shown it is never a good idea to remind mortals their deities are _vulnerable._

The temple is indeed their own and only their own. No hostile presence seethes at their intrusion. The walls are open and expectant, a vast void for them to happily fill together. If Miguel could learn to share his threadbare belongings with the last other dragon alive, then sharing protection of a whole golden city is nothing in comparison.

Chief Tannabok proposes a glorious feast for tonight and Tzekel-Kan a reverent dawn ceremony. Of course they accept both. Both is good. Both is always good.

When the mortals depart they immediately make for the two empty thrones awaiting their attention. And peer thoughtfully at the idol between them. The figure is richly dressed, but holds an offering table in its hands. Miguel marvels at the craftsman, a style so wonderfully unique from everything he's ever seen before. Tulio taps the figure and hums appreciatively.

"Pure gold all right." He smirks at their surroundings. "Not a bad start. Not bad at all."

Miguel steps forward to admire the view. And frowns to discover their vantage point considerably higher than all other buildings, even the one that must be the chief's palace and the ominous, skull-covered one that must be Tzekel-kan's temple of choice. "We're... quite high up, aren't we? Physically speaking."

"Eh." Tulio shrugs. "Dragon's eye view. Can't exactly keep watch from down in the dirt. That's what we do, right? Watch and protect."

"B-But that's exactly what we used to do!"

"That was then, Miguel. This is now! Different place, different people! Granted, it's not my old lair quite yet, but a lot easier to spruce up than that shitty cave." He frowns at the faceless idol. "And it doesn't have it's thief problem quite worked out yet."

"Not a thief, my lords!" the thief in question interjects, frantically ducking out from behind a column. She carefully wedges the stolen head back where it belongs. "Just returning your tribute to its rightful place. As I have helped find your way back here."

"Right," Tulio deadpans. "And _your_ rightful place is what again?"

"S-Serving you of course, my lords," the woman forces out with fake brightness as she falls to the floor in a full bow. "My only wish is to serve the gods.... H-However you need me."

Miguel's heart drops at the barely restrained terror in her voice, the tremble in her limbs. And even further at how Tulio is smirking, blue eyes blazing in the growing dark, as he makes her stew. Miguel bares his teeth in reprimand. It's enough to shock his idiot partner into sober reflection as he gingerly kneels by the woman's side.

"Serving the gods makes you our priestess, doesn't it?" he asks gamely.

Dark eyes peer up to meet his own. She flinches back as she notices how in the dark his eyes glow with a light of their own, all the better to illuminate his slit pupils. But she does not look away. "I-It does, my lord."

"What should we call you then?"

She inhales, exhaling out her mortal terror in one deep breath. "Chel, my lord. Call me Chel."

He smiles, taking great care to not expose canines a tad too sharp for anything truly human, and extends a welcoming hand. "Hi, Chel. It's nice to properly greet the woman that heeded our vision."

Tentatively she smiles back, taking his hand as he helps her back to her feet. "Hi, my lord."

"Please, call me Miguel."

"Miguel!" Tulio hisses scandalously. "W-We don't... _fraternize with priestesses!"_

"Well, maybe you never did," Miguel retorts with a lazy smirk. " _I_ certainly wasn't so full of myself. You can't quite know your people without _knowing_ the people."

"Ew! Too much information!"

"Says the hypocrite that _really_ loved his goat-men. I know that because I could hear your stupid orgies the next valley over!"

"Um." Chel's gaze appraises them shamelessly. It's enough to startle them out of their bickering. "If I may, my lords, I am... not unopposed to such an arrangement. Theoretically."

"Huh." Tulio struggles to pick his jaw up from the floor. "Uhhhh... There are probably certain terms we should agree on first. Like, a lot of them."

"Yeah," Miguel agrees reluctantly.

They are dragons that learned to get out along out of sheer necessity, to the point where it paralyzes Miguel with utter terror at the thought of ever not being beside his partner for too long. The few xanas and other surviving spirits they've stumbled across had certainly not minded two lovers for the price of one. Most people aren't as... open with that.

"Y-You have a feast to be getting to anyway, my lords," Chel reminds them gamely. "Remember?"

They slump in weary relief at a crisis temporarily averted and woefully at potential bliss indefinitely delayed.

Miguel picks self-consciously at his stuffy red shirt as he recalls what the people - _his_ new people - wear. The form meant to blend in with the Spaniards make him utterly alien here. So he cautiously asks Chel if she knows anything more befitting of these forms. She scampers off and returns with whole piles to drop in their laps. Then their priestess happily plops down to watch the show.

Miguel drops his pants without complaint. Tulio hesitates with his shirt. "Hey, um, Chel? _Maybe_ this isn't the best time to-"

"Oh. Right, right! Excuse me." Chel slowly pulls the curtain back behind her, lingering for one last look that has Miguel purring after her.

He grins as he jostles Tulio's arm. "The legends should have called this place 'Chel Dorado,' am I right?"

"Right," his partner agrees automatically. Then he hesitates on the strange new clothing. It won't take long for them to embrace it as a second skin, but for now they're just easing into their new place here. "Hey, Miguel, we should really consider... all of _this_ a trial period. Just for now."

"W-What?" Miguel yelps. "Fate hands us everything we ever wanted and you're ready to... what, just slither away from it all again?"

"No!" Tulio snaps. "It... It's just... We don't know all the details of exactly what we're protecting here, Miguel. The Romans couldn't change what we are. The Christians sure fucking couldn't. I just... don't want to leap after this thing if it turns out too good to be true. I'm not losing myself, losing _you,_ even if we get all this in return."

Miguel squeezes his hand fondly, nuzzling their foreheads together. "I'm not going anywhere, you silly snake. Except to feast like I've never feasted before."

He figures out how to tie the hip wrap, draping the gold-fringed mantle across his shoulders. The earrings and arm bands are donned with well-practiced ease. Even when strolling out among his people in disguise Miguel had always carried as much of his hoard with him as he could get away with, from the golden torques around his neck to ears dripping in treasure.

Miguel turns to find his partner hapless and disheveled. With a fond sigh he stoops to tie the knot that's caused him such grief in no time at all.

* * *

Chel's gods finally reappear properly dressed, their faces near identical to the images of the Dual Gods even if their overall forms aren't quite Manoan. Miguel's golden hair and the curl to Tulio's hair is nothing compared to their eyes, blazing brightly even as they gleefully bound down their temple steps. At the base they encounter Chieftess Miya and Chief Tannabok's three youngest boys. The toddler chomps down on Tulio's finger when he bends to tickle his chin. But the god only guffaws and lets Miguel tug him on.

Tulio graciously accepts the first bowl of pure, undiluted wine from Chief Tannabok. It is a tribute he shares with Miguel, leaning close together so that they might imbibe that first ceremonial sip as one. To the crowd, and to Chel, this cements their identities as the Dual Gods. They raised this world together and left it just the same. Of course they are just as closely joined upon their return.

Upon their drinking they offer the next bowl to Altivo. Their herald downs it all.

On the first libation all to himself Miguel drinks deeply. Then he spits it into the torch burning above. The flames leap high and bright, their warm orange shade flaring green-gold. The god laughs so of course Tulio snatches his wine to do just the same. This time the fire flashes all shades of blue.

Altivo is the wind incarnate. He proves it by galloping circles around the crowd and leaping fearlessly over bonfires. Maybe he is an incarnation of the Feathered Serpent. Maybe he isn't. He certainly doesn't seem ready to confirm it one or the other anytime soon.

Chel's gods are all about fire. They move on from sparking up torches to puffing deeply on cigars, competing with ever larger smoke rings and then more elaborate creations. They dance up and down burning coals in foreign, flamboyant fashion. As their self-appointed priestess Chel does what she can to keep up with them, ordering out dancers and puppets and drummers to compliment their wonders.

She regrets bringing out the sparklers. Oh gods does she regret the sparklers. The number of cakes accidentally melted and eyebrows singed off from their ensuing glee is a secret best lost to tonight and the increasing intoxication of their crowd.

They wind up with another fire and a flat temple wall as backdrop. Tulio's hands weave over the tips of the flames, smoke and shade flaring with him. Miguel impishly poses, the shadows moving with his shape even if they do not reflect it. His chosen form is nowhere near that large or strong. The silhouette flickers with the light. In one he has horns and next wings like a bat arch out from his back.

Tulio has the fire under thrall. When he throws up his hands in ecstasy, the flames burn near bright as daylight for a heartbeat. In the next Miguel's shadow stretches far and wide, blocking out all starlight over the square.

Then the moment passes and they are but men again.

Tulio, chest heaving, moves to withdraw his hands. Miguel lunges forward, clasping his right hand to his left, and as one plunges their arms into the heart of the flame. Chel shivers at the god's deep, throaty laugh. Panic seizes her as she moves to force them out of the fire before they burn their whole arms off.

Finally the gods stand to their full heights. They raise their arms from the flames, hands still held tightly together. Scales of emerald and sapphire glitter like gemstones in the light. They grin at each other with rows of fangs, sharp and ruthless.

Chel shudders. For want of a subject change she calls for more wine. The gods happily partake. So does a crowd already too drunk to care over their first proper look at the true faces of divinity.

No matter how deep the stomachs of gods run they're still shambling, slurring wrecks by the end of the night. Chel wrangles some of the more sober acolytes to shoo them up to bath and bed. By then their forms are human as they can be, save for the bleary glowing eyes and the fact that even the strongest men grunt at the effort of carrying their weight.

Altivo catches her eye before he breezes off into the night. The wind runs where he wills. Therefore Chel focuses on the gods that have outright claimed her as their own.

They go easily enough into the bath. After first considering dressing them in the clothes of their arrival she eventually decides clean mantles and hip wraps. Her gods get snarly when their attendants mess too much with the gold draping from every limb. So into the easier option they go.

Once Chel dismisses the last acolytes she uneasily settles down on the couch. It's the closest option to the gods that isn't snuggled warmly between them. No way is she risking that with Tzekel-Kan's sacrifice on the horizon. Despite her isolation on the couch in such thin clothes Chel is never cold. In their sleep her gods radiate lazy heat that leaves the whole temple toasty. She's so cozy she nearly sleeps through the high priest and his servants stealing inside hours later. Quickly she jumps into place.

They've claimed her as their priestess. She need never fear winding up on the altar.

Not like the poor bastard bound to end up there this morning. The gods have already downed their weight in wine. Now is the time to properly feed them. She has glimpsed the fangs in their smirks, the scales and flesh-rending claws that fire reveals. The Dual Gods gave Manoa gold to _limit_ human sacrifice, not eliminate it entirely. And this is a special occasion, the dawning of a new age.

From their slumber the gods are slow to rise. Tzekel-Kan brims with enough vigor for all three of them. Chief Tannabok stands in sorrowful resolution, as he does before every great sacrifice divinity demands. Chel wishes for such grace. She trembles as she scatters flowers before their wake.

Miguel gazes on in curious concern. It is Tulio who hisses, "Hey, Chel, what's going on?"

Chel tries and fails to muster up the proper enthusiasm a priestess should feel at a sacrifice so readily received. "It's not gonna be good," she blurts out honestly.

Miguel's brow furrows. Tulio draws himself up, shoulders tensing. "Oh, this better not be what I think it is."

"The city has been given a great blessing. And what have we done to show our gratitude?" The high priest scowls hatefully at Chief Tannabok, both ignorant to the darkening moods of the deities behind them. "A meager _celebration._ The gods deserve a proper tribute!" He waves his hands, working true magic to raise his victim, bound and drugged, before him. "The beginning of a new era, the dawning of a new age, demands... _sacrifice!"_

A sound like thunder splits the air. It is no storm. Tzekel-Kan freezes his swing. Chel drops her basket as every eye falls upon the gods.

For his small size Miguel rumbles deep enough to shake Chel's bones. He shudders with the force of his repressed rage. Tulio's eyes blaze. The air around them shimmers with heat. Everyone in their vicinity unconsciously shrinks back at fear of being lost beneath their true forms. Except Chel. She is too enthralled to fear being crushed like an ant.

"What do you take us for," Tulio growls in a voice barely human, "to offer up those we are supposed to _protect?"_

Tzekel-Kan's mouth works wordlessly. "M-My lords, you are the greatest of gods. I offer only the beginning of your _rightful_ due."

Miguel stalks forward, shoving the high priest aside like nothing. He effortlessly scoops the sacrifice, bound and swooning, into his arms. Snarling one last time at Tzekel-Kan when he pushes his way past, the rage falls from his face and into utter. His green eyes silently search the crowd. Some creep close to offer help.

"Y-You do not _want_ the sacrifice?"

_**"Never."** _

The whole crowd trembles at Miguel's vehemence. Chel shivers with something else.

Tulio has the self-control to elaborate. "We tolerated living under the shadows of greater gods, time after time they came to replace each other. Them came the one that tried to make us monsters." He glares from Tzekel-Kan to Tannabok, from Lady Raima's peak to the roaring waters of Xibalba. "Cast us out or kill us. But if _he_ couldn't force the flesh of our people down our throats then you sure as hell can't."

Tzekel-Kan splutters, turning from the gods to the people. Among them he receives only averted gazes and murmurs of a conversation not turning his way. Some move to take the thwarted sacrifice from Miguel. He has already snapped the man's bindings. The high priest deflates even further under Tulio's smoldering stare. He bows, manages an apology, and flees with his dignity in tatters.

Anxious silence falls over the square. Miguel pads back to his partner's side. They await their execution in simmering defiance. But Chel knows it will never come to that.

Chief Tannabok clears his throat tactfully, bowing to those who approach behind him. "My lords, may the people of Manoa offer you are tribute." The gods behold baskets laden with gold. And grin. The chief brightens at their glee. "Does this please you, my lords?"

_"Yes!"_ they crow as one.

"Really," Miguel laughs. "Why was this so hard to figure out?" He waggles one adorned arm ruefully. "We're adorned in it already!"

Tulio eyes up the offering before them. "Well, it's certainly a start. But we've got centuries to build on that."

"The gods have chosen!" the chief declares, to the roar of the people. "To Xibalba?"

The gods from each other to their golden temple. Chel steals forward to inform Tannabok her lords very much wish to bask in the reverence that has been shown to them. It is a cry he quickly spreads through the crowd, as they muster up the gold and their gods in a grand parade back to their temple. While her lords preen from atop their litter Chel proudly keeps pace beside them. Altivo has generously offered himself as mount.

Upon reaching the temple Chel tries to direct the endless flood of tribute. But her gods also speak for themselves. And are both very opinionated on where every last piece should go. Tulio obsesses over mineral purity, every last stud of jade and sapphire. Miguel cares more for their provenance, asking over what masters smelted them or where they were traded from. Chel's job becomes mediating their bickering. And keeping their questions from drowning the poor people bringing the gold all the way up these stairs.

When the last of the crowd is dismissed Chel turns to leave herself. The gods fall upon their gold luxuriously because they very much intend to bask. They deserve the privacy to do so.

"Hey, Chel," Tulio calls in utter bewilderment. "Where on earth are you going?"

"Letting you bask," she responds. "And do... whatever else gods do with gold."

Miguel blinks. "B-But don't you want your share?"

_"What?"_

Miguel gestures to the heaping piles of tribute. "You're our priestess, aren't you? You helped secure our place here." He rolls his eyes at Tulio's deadpan stare. "Yes, Tulio, I'm perfectly aware she tried stealing from this temple. _Before_ we claimed it. Besides," he sniffs. "I always liked the thieves bold enough to break into my lair. They needed cunning and grace and um... you know. Other things a dragon could appreciate."

_Dragon._ There is that word again, from what Chel had overheard last night. She still doesn't know what it means.

Chel bites her lip at the trove before her. Her green stone hangs heavy in her lobes, a mark she is a Person of the Vine, an acolyte destined for sacrifice up until she ran into two gods upon their herald. "Really, Miguel, I'm fine. The only thing I'd appreciate is a... more fitting pair of earrings. So I can honor you properly in my part as priestess."

Tulio waves an empty, idle hand. Then Chel blinks and something gold winks there. Her hands scarcely fumble as she catches them. "These. These are the ones."

Chel glances down and knows he is right. They are perfect, gold studded with jade, flaunting her new status whilst reminding all Manoa where she came from. "Oh," she murmurs. "Thank you."

She drops her old stone to the floor and loses them among the throng. Her new gift hangs just right in her ears and so she stands taller in them. Her gods grin gleefully back. When Miguel pats a spot of gold between them she hunkers down with little hesitation. Huh. It's comfier than she would've thought.

Time passes in companionable silence. Then Miguel flicks his gaze up to the golden image of the Dual Gods. "Hey, Chel, that's who Manoa believes us to be, right?"

Her hands dig into the gold. "The Dual Gods, upon the Feathered Serpent. They came down to raise the Fifth World and grant it gold to lessen the human blood that need flow upon the altars. Then they departed into the sunrise. The Age of the Serpent has spanned a thousand years. Manoa has awaited their return every day since."

Tulio snorts. "Serpents, sure. If you want to get  _demeaning_ about it."

"We haven't been serpents in centuries, Chel," Miguel tells her casually. "Not since our people were young. Then they got more creative, more... abstract. So we got older too. And grew six or so extra limbs befitting our new status."

Chel pictures a monstrous snake with an insect's six jointed legs. Rather than shudder, she bites back a grin at the thought. "That sounds like a lot of limbs to keep track of after having none at all."

"Eh." Tulio shrugs. "You got used to it. Just like you got used to your people looking outside their valley to seek bigger and better gods. You learn to tolerate Celts and Romans living high and mighty above you because, hey, you've still got _your_ cave. Your hoard. Someone still bleeds their herd or their flock to you."

"Until the last God stopped playing nice," Miguel mutters. "So then you have to be evil because God forbid the people look to a power that isn't _God."_

"If you eat people then they have the excuse to kill you," Tulio explains darkly. "Even if you're just eating the corpses and not live human beings."

"Or are eating too much of their flocks, if you starve them out or block off their water. Then it's all well and good to murder you in your home when all you want is a nice midsummer nap!"

"Or pour molten lead into perfectly good loaves of bred to poison you."

"Or call down fiery messengers to shove _flaming spears_ down your throat." Miguel sniffs. "But who's counting?"

"You two, apparently." They shrug, twiddling their thumbs and digging their fingers in the gold. Chel's hands creep for their one. Neither shies away. "Their loss is Manoa's gain. What you two did this morning? That meant the world to us, to _me."_

Tulio swallows, blue eyes meeting hers. "Do the gods here demand that a lot?"

"Less in this age, thanks to the gift of gold. Most still call for human blood when they really crave it." Her aunts, lost in the Dark Days. Her mother, given to Xibalba to stop the blight upon the waters. Her brother, heart carved out on the Jaguar God's altar.

Miguel's gentle hand comes up to brush her earlobe, stopping at gold and jade. "Do they tend to favor those with green in their ears?"

"We're first on the altar unless the omens state otherwise."

Miguel flashes his teeth in a grim smile. "Not anymore. The next one that tries answers to _me._ Everyone back home knows you never get between a dragon and their hoard."

"Miguel," Tulio groans in fond exasperation. "We've talked about this. Many times. You can't call dibs on an entire civilization."

"Please," his partner scoffs, "like you never burned out an invading army through raging sickness before. Or crushed them in landslides. Or washed them in floods or-"

Chel cackles so hard the gods turn to gape at her. "Oh, the Jaguar God is gonna _love_ you guys."

"Tzekel-Kan's god?"

"Yep."

"Pft. Like cat creeps got anything on us."

Eventually the lighthearted ribbing moves onto questions about each other's pasts and joking attempts to divide their shares of the gold. Which is funny because the gods insist they share everything, therefore they must share Chel's attention and she their share of the hoard.

Then they find there's so much more to share. Many times Chel feels like setting the matter straight once for all, seeing Tzekel-Kan thoroughly torn from his pedestal if not from Manoa entirely. Tulio's forked tongue makes very convincing arguments otherwise. So do Miguel's nimble fingers. As their priestess she naturally exalts their names to the skies, screaming them to heavens. In turn they scream for each other. For her.

The day and the night pass in a heady blur. Chel certainly remembers the morning after. Miguel pops awake at the crack of dawn, much to the dismayed groaning of his bedfellows. They've examined each other and their heaping piles of tribute plenty. Now is the time to delight in their people and inspect all that is theirs to protect. This is how Chel rides giant turtles, stacks up bone-sticks to drop into elaborate patterns, and flies beside the other dancers of the pole. Where the gods go, she goes. Some people still have the audacity to gawk at her closeness to them. Those that don't like should try telling the gods how to behave. Maybe they'll end up luckier than Tzekel-Kan.

The high priest is holed up and sulking somewhere. Chel leaves him to it. In this new life there is only joy with her partners, at least when nothing poses an active danger to the city around them. They take only a few minutes with Chief Tannabok to make arrangements for a more proper sacrifice come the first dawn the hunters can bring in a live tapir. He sees them off with the promise _everything_ will be attended to.

Chel isn't worried. She trusts the chief like she can few others. He's a true ruler, good and earnest.

With the revelation the gods will take no human sacrifice Manoa explodes into another riotous celebration. The night is capped by an account of the gods' coming, complete with two boy actors riding in on wooden replicas of Altivo and Chel's own actor declaring their arrival. Oddly enough the thwarted sacrifice is played by a very dramatic armadillo. Eh. Lord Bibi's heralds have always been a strange bunch.

The thrones of the gods are plenty big. Both beg Chel to sit with them. Her... own throne is still being made, apparently. This is how all three of them wind up comfortably squished in one, because of course Tulio was too jealous to skip out on his partners cuddling without him there. Just as planned.

Of course their beautiful night is rudely interrupted by the Jaguar God's jade idol ripping itself free of its collapsing temple. Tzekel-Kan screams something about avenging Balam Qoxtok and casting down the false gods before they corrupt Manoa from the inside out.

Perhaps Manoa might have heard him, if the thunderous roars do not drown him out.

In their most primal forms the gods loom as something like serpents, though with four mighty claws gripping into the earth. Their unfurled wings blot out the moon and stars. Miguel's scales shimmer emerald in the light of his fire and Tulio deep sapphire. The jade idol hesitates in its charge. Each dragon looms feet taller, though more slender and with bodies of flesh and scales than solid stone.

Together the Dragon Gods pounce. Chel squints her eyes against blinding flames and sudden nausea. A jaguar's furious shriek cuts off as the gods and the idol vanish from mortal eyes and into another plane entirely. Perhaps Balam Qoxtok thinks he stands a fighting chance in his own dark jungle. Perhaps her boys are trying to limit collateral damage to their new city. She knows how this very one-sided fight will end, so Chel turns and leaves them to it.

Altivo breezes obligingly to her side. He bows his head to her when she climbs on. The crowd gapes up at the woman the Horse God has deigned accept as his rider twice now.

Chel smiles sweetly at a warrior. "Your spear, please."

He hands it over. The weight is right in her arms, but it's much too cold. After knowing the embrace of her boys, the kiss of fire, Chel longs only for heat.

She smiles into satisfaction when the spear bursts into flame, deep red-gold. The heat doesn't blister. In her hand the fire is practically body heat, just an extension of herself. For all the spear blazes it never _burns._ Why would she need ashes?

Tzekel-Kan, the filthy coward, tries fleeing without his god's power behind him. He tries to outrace the wind. And fails.

Chel takes her tribute a thousandfold. He deserves it, for everyone of her people he dragged upon the altars.

When it's over Chel claims a piece all for herself. His sacrificial knife, perhaps the same that carved her brother's heart out, is red with its masters blood when she drops it upon the hoard as a keepsake of tonight, a grim reminder to prevent such threats in the future from ever gaining such influence in Manoa ever again. She settles in her throne and waits, planting the burning spear at her side.

Miguel and Tulio return laden with new tribute. They dump the many fragments of jade in a careless heap. All that ash can be cleaned off later.

"It's done," Tulio declares in grim satisfaction.

"Oh, Tulio," Miguel sighs. "It's only just begun, hasn't it?"

Chel rises from her throne. As one they look down from their temple, to square with Xibalba's swirling gateway. "Damn right," she growls. "The demons down there have quite a bit that belongs to me, to _us."_

Together her gods fearlessly consider a world where even the great gods of the sky fear to tread.

"We were born in the dark," Miguel murmurs. "We made our lairs there. It was home even when we grew the claws to climb our way out."

"And then the wings." Tulio frowns over at Chel. "You're gonna need our help to fly back out."

She rolls her eyes. "Not if you just me how to _fly."_

Her gods consider this. And smirk.

Chel grins when they clasp their hands in hers. She laughs when the fire envelops them all, and louder still when she soars the first time she soars on her own power, her partners radiant at her side.

Xibalba burns before their might. The more pathetic Lords of Xibalba tremble. The nicer ones roll their eyes at such theatrics and invite them over to dinner once they get everything in their domain settled. That might take a while. Dragons are greedy with their hoards. Chel rescues not only her family, but every last damn soul she can get her claws on.

* * *

Manoa is heaven on earth, a refuge from war and strife where their guardian gods soar high and proud over the city. El Dorado is a city of gold, one last great conquest yet to be made, though one guarded by fire-breathing dragons. No version of the tale is less true than the other. They are just as real as the Curdled Sea, where dragons dwell on the seafloor to guard the souls of the dead and treasure troves beyond compare. They are both stories, grounded in the belief of others who have only the vaguest idea where to begin their journey.

There is a man by Cortes who supposedly met dragons along that route, the ragged survivors his expedition encounter only glorious caves that exhale golden butterflies, mundane sickness and natural disasters that pull the men to their limits. It is later storytellers that exaggerated that cave into a true dragon, one that breathed golden fire instead of golden wings. Men burned by raging fever or wildfire make poor details, when they instead might die in _dragon-fire._

Or so the story goes. Words are wind. They blow and drift as the wind wills.

Manoa, of course, knows its gods. There are Tulio and Miguel, the Blue and Green Lords, the Dual Gods returned to their creation at long last. There is also Chel, the Red Lady, who was either born a goddess in human skin or a woman who made herself a dragon. They can never quite decide.

So too is there Altivo, Lord of Winds, who is very much a Horse God and _not_ another Dragon God.

Or so Manoa thinks. It's not like Altivo has ever actually bothered to confirm anything one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cuelebre is a Spanish dragon from primarily around Asturias and the surrounding regions. Tales vary from area to area. They're almost always hostile forces that eat people or terrorize their lands until they get slain. Usually the saint or knight that kills them demands the people erect a church in return for getting rid of their dragon problem. Two famous legends end up with a dragon killed by a poisoned loaf of bread another by the archangel. Guess where Miguel got his name here :p
> 
> Because of that it's been posited the cuelebre is a Christianized account of an older pagan deity entreated to protect livestock, the local water sources, ect. Christian retellings recasted that deity's animal sacrifices or pagan offerings as human sacrifice, making it a very good thing when the local dragon (or deity) is slain and a church founded instead. It's not confirmed either way. If Neil Gaiman ran on crazy theories for American Gods then I certainly can here :D Cuelebres have hidden lairs that open up on midsummer, so a knight can kill them for their gold. 
> 
> Cuelebres have been described as both winged serpents and the traditional six-limbed type. Given the earliest versions of dragon legends basically have them as giant snakes that's probably what they started off as too. Some legends say that when the cuelebre grew too big both the earth and sky would reject them. That's why the flew into Mar Cuajada, the Curdled Sea, where they lived on the seafloor with the other big cuelebres. It's very obscure in English sources, but apparently there's supposed to be treasure down there and sometimes the souls of the dead. It might be a remnant of some old Iberian afterlife from before the Roman conquest or just a later fairy tale embellishment.
> 
> Xanas are something like Asturian nymphs and likely more folk memories of earlier water deities. Asturias is an ancient region. Long before the Roman gods gained influence there the Celtic gods and languages were practiced by local tribes such as the Astures. But this only happened during the Iron Age, so some local deities might have persisted in some form from the peoples that existed even before then. That means Miguel and Tulio are well used to working on a more local, less glamorized level than, say, a Greco-Roman god of Iberia would be that has only ever known being a big fish in a small pond. That, coupled with dragon confidence (and greed) allowed a different series of events than what usually happen. Because our dragon!idiots are a little more put together than our Roman!idiots XD


	20. piece by piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, a goddess painstakingly collected every last dismembered part of her murdered husband, and brought him back piece by piece. Now their son attempts to do the same for his own love. But in this he's not alone, not ever again.
> 
> Or: how Miguel and Chel resurrect the third part of their OT3, piece by piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly not that angsty. Because Miguel doesn't get sad. He brings back his partners through sheer force of will :p

"Seven! All right!"

Miguel grins, bright and earnest. His partner's dice never steer him wrong. Only then does he scoop up his lute, dancing gleefully around his pile of ill-gotten goods. "Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of gold for-"

"Hey!" growls the grizzled old sailor. "One more roll."

Miguel fixes him with a predatory stare, most especially the visible gold still hanging from his gold and the tense faces of his crewmates. "Depends. Do you have anything left worth my time?"

"Oh, yeah? I got this!"

Triumphantly the sailor draws forth yellowed paper. Miguel gapes at the patterns unfurled there, unlike any he has ever beheld in his very, very long life. Beneath the murmur of the crowd, the background noise of the busy docks, a ghost whispers. "A map?"

"A map of the wonders of the New World!"

Miguel wrenches the paper from his grip. In his own hands the whisper increases in volume, rising from a distant possibility to near certain promise. A New World for new beginnings, where God yet holds little sway and death a looser dominion. Here is _their_ destiny, their fate. His eyes water at the hope of near a millennium in the making about to finally come true.

"I said one more roll!" The sailor rips his future from his hands. Miguel scowls at him and barely resists the urge to stab him. He does his partner no good that way. "My map against your cash!"

"You're on," he spits out.

Miguel scarcely hesitates even when the sailor demands to use his own dice. With a reverent kiss he safely stows his partner's pair away. This roll he leaves up to fate. If it's meant to be, it will be. If not, then he'll walk away with only gold lost and not his life. He's waited near a thousand years to make this dream come true. He'll wait a thousand years if that's what it takes.

The sailor drops his map upon the stakes. Miguel sets aside his lute for the dice. He dances frantically around the circle, tossing and rubbing the dice in every superstitious way his partner either perfected or outright invented. Many a pretty face in the crowd catches his eye. He ignores them all to breathe his own silent prayer upon the dice, that they shall be their salvation at long last. Then he lets fortune fly.

One dice lands three. The other spins, and spins. It slants toward five. And lands on four.

Miguel laughs. Laughs nearly until he sobs. He snatches up the map and the coins beneath it. The rest will only slow him down.

"I'm coming!" he cries, nimbly weaving his way through the flabbergasted crowd. Even now he moves with a lightness to his feet that can't be entirely blamed on his joy. "Finally, I'm coming!"

Miguel deserts his now thoroughly worthless winnings for the sailors to fight over. He has his way forward at last. Now is only the trail and the prize that awaits him at the end.

He hasn't a moment to lose. Cortes sets sail that very day.

Miguel doesn't just swagger his way aboard. He knows from dock gossip that the conquistador has carefully chosen every last one of his disciples. Instead he takes a leaf out of his partner's book to smuggle his way on. By the time they discover him among the pickles they're too far out to turn around. A life sentence to Cuba means little to him. He'll sneak his way off eventually. Finding El Dorado is his destiny, his fate. There his partner awaits.

They only pat him down for weapons before throwing him into the brig. Of course the map pressed tightly to his chest escapes their groping hands. So do the priceless treasures they dismiss as trash; a pair of loaded dice, a set of broken pipes, a single unremarkable rock. How are they to know they are pieces of a god, all that remains in this world of his partner beyond the memories they share?

Days drift by. Miguel passes most of it in dreams. They are memories of days gone by; not of his past godly glories, but sweet afternoons spent wiled away in fields with only clever hands and a quick wit from his partner to fill the void. In the dark of night, when the wind stirs and the stars blaze bright overhead, Miguel dreams his deepest. On the verge between sleep and something else entirely, he does not walk alone.

Always he awakes at dawn, tears staining his cheeks and his heart aching at that bitter divide. "I'm coming," he breathes to the new morning air. "One way or another, I'm coming."

Then comes the day an apple drops into his lap. Miguel grins at the gift.

He is not alone upon this ship. Once upon a time, Altivo was more than a prize warhorse. Not only does he have an apple addiction, but a craving for true tribute and the wits to bargain.

Miguel is too short to reach the bars on his own. However the spaces between them are wide enough to toss an apple through. He does just that to lure Altivo closer. Then he throws the apple a little lower, so the stallion can only snap after it. Miguel considers a pry bar a fair exchange. Not that he's complaining when Altivo, the smarmy old boy, drops down a set of keys instead.

He certainly never intends to get the poor boy stranded at sea at him. Though secretly Miguel is glad for company.

For all he keeps his partner alive in his heart, he is also very much dead. Altivo, though stuck as a horse, is still very much alive. He grounds Miguel to the here and now. Gods forbid he came all this way to die a raving lunatic lost at sea. His partner would never let him hear the end of it, if they reunited down in the underworld rather than the realm above.

As the only one able to talk Miguel fills the long gaps of silence. Often Altivo appreciates it. Other times the stallion rolls his eyes and dramatically sighs over the boat prow. Miguel knows he's a bit of a chatterbox, but he just can't take the quiet.

"So, old boy, were you Iberian originally?" Altivo twitches an ambivalent ear. "I know, I know. After what the Romans did to every other pantheon, it's... Well, most of me wasn't Roman originally, if that's any consolation. I come from all over. Out from Greece and the lands out east. From Egypt, even. I... I think I liked my parents down there best."

The horse pointedly raises his head and nickers for more. Probably because this one of the rare stories that does _not_ involve any incarnation of his partner.

So Miguel grins and tells him the story of how that part of him came to be. The entire time he tosses his partner's dice, over and over. Altivo's eyes widen in understanding and then soften at the end. Miguel smiles wanly back. "Explains a lot about me, doesn't it?"

Even more days crawl past. They're on the verge of death when their boat shudders beneath them. Miguel sobs when golden sand runs warm and solid through his fingers. He shall reunite with his partners upon these shores after all, and not beneath them. It is no mere coincidence they have washed up right at the start of the trail. Someone, if only a surviving threadbare of fate, is watching them.

"Well, Altivo?" he murmurs to the horse. "Are you with us?"

The old boy rolls his eyes and lets him mount regardless. They gallop from landmark to landmark in no time at all. Miguel rides like a man possessed. Altivo, taken by his rider's unwavering faith, runs with the same intensity. Their entire path is shadowed by the adorable little armored mammal that patters after them. It's a divine messenger and a certain sign they're on the right trail.

Their journey ends in a misty valley. Miguel's gaze flicks from the crowned woman offering tribute to the crested serpent coiled over her. His breath hitches as he beholds its riders. He climbs astride Altivo so that he might be tall enough to lay a tender hand upon the first rider. But the stele is still too tall and even the foot of that achingly familiar face is just out of reach.

"We're here," he chokes out. "We're finally _here."_

Miguel is still pressed to the image when destiny once more runs into their path. Altivo whinnies in furious surprise when the woman crashes into her, rearing up to his full height. She gazes up in stupefied awe. Miguel stares right back. So does Altivo, when his temper dies down enough. When is the last time mortal eyes have ever viewed the with such raw wonder?

Whatever delicate thing between them all breaks at the sight of warriors pounding after the woman in hot pursuit. The thief's face freezes in fear. Altivo bugles when the warriors shove their spears into his face, his flailing hooves keeping them at bay. Miguel holds on with the grip of an expert horseman. His face twists dangerously as he brandishes the golden blade from the beach in clear warning. Like hell is he dying _now._

When Altivo finally thumps back down onto all fours the warriors are still too stunned to react. Then the thief throws her stolen tribute to him. Miguel catches it easily, tucking it under his free arm. He smirks up at the stele and a prophecy already coming true.

He arches an expectant brow at the warriors. Only then does the leader what he gazes upon and bows. His men are quick to follow.

Miguel lets himself be escorted by the warriors with a haughty grace that easily comes back to him. Altivo picks up on his mood and arches his neck imposingly. When the warriors creep to apprehend the woman as a thief, Miguel frowns sharply and reaches for his blade again. The men are quick to scurry away, bowing their apologies. The woman draws herself up and walks at the horse's side.

They are led under the waterfall to the boats upon the secret river beyond. Miguel happily plops down while Altivo awkwardly squeezes his bulk on. More cautiously the woman sits down across from him. He smiles warmly back. She flushes and averts her eyes.

For a final time Miguel ventures down into darkness. This time he will emerge with his partner at his side. They will be reunited, forever and always.

He'll make it so.

* * *

Chel tries her damnedest not to stare. The gods do not make it easy. Their herald is no serpent at all, but rather something like a giant, muscular deer. The one Dual God she sees has hair like gold and eyes like emerald. Even more worrying is the mystery of where the _other_ Dual God is. They're never pictured without the other. Literally one of the few things Manoa knows about them is that they're never apart!

But it's not her place to gawk. It's a miracle enough the gods took mercy on her and accepted her stolen head as legitimate tribute. So she's gonna stay put and play the part of a diligent follower like her life depends on it. Because it very much does.

The Dual God disembarks from their boat to once more mount his herald. Chel naturally sticks close to his side. No one but her dares venture close to physical divinity.

"Behold!" Tzekel-Kan booms. "As the prophecies foretold, the time of judgement is now! Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

The god grins.

Chel is half-surprised Tzekel-Kan comes down from his superior height to stand beneath the gods when he declares himself as their high priest and speaker. More humbly Chief Tannabok introduces himself before asking what names Manoa may be permitted to call them.

The god bites his lip in thought. "I am Miguel, called the Averter of Evil. Our herald Altivo, called the High." He grins fondly up at his own divine image. "My partner shall reveal himself to you in due time."

"Your arrival has been greatly anticipated," Chief Tannabok answers warmly. "My lords, how long will you be staying in Manoa?"

Chel freezes when Tzekel-Kan's ruthless gaze fixates upon her, before flicking up to the golden tribute snug under Lord Miguel's arm. "Ah, my lord, I see you have captured this temple-robbing thief. How would you have us punish her?"

Lord Miguel's eyes narrow. "She is no thief."

Chel smiles when the high priest withdraws his hand as if burned. "Of course, my lord. The gods sent me a vision to bring them tribute from the temple to guide them here. My only wish is to serve the gods."

"And you're doing marvelous so far," the god gushes. "Best priestess we've had in ages!"

Chel puffs up at the praise, no matter how fake, and further still when Tzekel-Kan's face sours. He recovers his dignity when he insists on showing Lord Miguel to the temple of the Dual Gods. He and Chief Tannabok lead the way, while Chel follows her new god at a respectful distance. Lord Altivo does not join them. He tosses his head and breezes away. The crowd parts like water to let him pass.

"Don't mind Altivo," Lord Miguel says easily. "The wind blows where he wills. He's a good friend, but he is not my _partner."_

"Of course, my lord," Tzekel-Kan answers. "You two are unmatched in your greatness."

Atop the temple steps Tzekel-Kan proposes reverent dawn ceremony and Chief Tannabok a glorious feast for that very night. Lord Miguel considers this. "Both. Both is good. You've two great gods to honor, after all." His gaze flicks to the priest. "Have your people goat kids?"

"W-What sort of children, my lord? Because I can always-"

"Sheep, then? Or pigs?" The god's lip purses at Tzekel-Kan's helpless splutter. "D-Do you at least have _dogs?"_

"We do, my lord, but-"

"Splendid!" Lord Miguel grins. "That'll do nicely for the dawn sacrifice." He waves off the priest's protest. "Nonsense, Tzekel. I'm sure you'll do just fine. Don't let me keep you from the rest of your night."

He spins around, forgetting the mortals entirely to explore the quarters that have awaited his arrival for a thousand years. Chief Tannabok beams after him and sweeps a steady, implacable arm around Tzekel-Kan's shoulder. Together they head down the stairs.

Chel pads after her god. She discovers him before the thrones. He lays a trembling hand upon the armrest of one but advances no further. She clears her throat, startling him from his thoughts. "May I, my lord?"

"O-Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you." Chel carefully takes the golden head from beneath its arm and reunites it to its body. "Please. What may I call you?"

"Chel, my lord. If it pleases you."

"It does, Chel. Very much." She blinks down at the casual hand extended her way. "Please, call me Miguel."

She shakes it in utter bemusement. "Nice to finally meet you, Miguel."

He grins. "The pleasure is all mine, Chel. Really." Once more his eye finds the image of the Dual Gods, resplendent upon the Feathered Serpent. His breath hitches. "...We've never given you names before, have we?"

"This is the first time we've had the honor, my... Miguel." Chel doesn't know why Altivo is a horse instead of a serpent or why Miguel showed up alone, but there is at least _something_ she can offer. "We... have clothes if a change of pace suits you."

"Yes, please. Change is exactly what I need right now."

The god perks up in excitement when she rushes off and returns with a bundle of clothes, those closer to the classical depictions of the Dual Gods. Miguel promptly drops his pants. Chel averts her eyes but doesn't spontaneously combust. So she relaxes and enjoys the show as much as she dares. She _is_ a priestess after all. Best she stay nearby to help him.

Miguel sheds his old clothes like a snake does its skin. He stands taller in the regalia of the Dual Gods, grins with gold in his ears and his lean torso proudly bared. Chel ogles. Her god catches her staring... and winks right back. She blinks after him in utter bewilderment as he swaggers out to meet his adoring public.

Well, a public open to adoring him. Miguel leaps down the steps with easy grace, charming Chieftess Miya with a radiant smile and even teasing a giggle from her surly toddler. Chel carefully follows him down the steps with the slow, measured steps of a priestess. She is one now even if she doesn't yet look the part.

Chief Tannabok scoops up a bowl of undiluted wine, the pure sort only poured out in libations before the great altars and granted to the most important of sacrifices. But Miguel does not drink. He raises the bowl above his head, casting his gaze skyward. His voice carries out to the crowd.

"I devote this first libation not to myself, but to my partner, who is called Comrade of the Feast! May he smile upon us tonight so that our food never runs low, and the wine flows like water. May your dancers ever leap taller and your musicians play ever louder. Let tonight be a night to put all other celebrations to shame, that neither man nor god shall ever forget!"

Manoa roars its approval. Miguel upends his wine and feeds it to the flame. The fire flares high and bright blue. Miguel laughs as the sparks caress him like a lover.

As priestess to the Dual Gods Chel is allowed minimally mixed wine, close as mortal lips can taste. She downs a single cup before throwing herself into her new role. It's her place to summon the dancers and drummers, singers and cigars, everything and anything to make the god's prayer come true. Most especially she searches the people for a man with a long, proud face. She wants to be sober for him, show off a celebration she helped choreograph. And make a better first impression on him than she did on poor Miguel.

For all he dedicates the first tribute to his partner Miguel downs the second and many more bowls after that. Despite his imbibing he still reels gracefully around the dancers, too swift for anyone but Altivo to keep up with. When the horse god prances across the fire Miguel _dances_ over the burning coals, back and forth on bare feet. He laughs off the startled shrieks.

"Nothing to worry about," he laughs, leaping out the flames to show off unmarked soles. "One nice little fire has nothing on volcanoes. Or the surface of the sun."

After several more bowls of wine, Miguel snatches a set of pipes from a player. His song enthralls the crowd. This time he reels slower around the square, a little less graceful. At least this time a crowd even drunker than he is can keep up.

When Miguel gets _really_ drunk he starts slurring people's futures out to them, assuring them third marriages will work out when they've yet to divorce their first spouse or that _they'll_ have the last laugh by surviving where all their enemies are rotting in their graves. Thankfully most people have already left or passed out in the corners. Those still standing will be too intoxicated to recall tomorrow their whole futures were spilled out to them.

Chel sighs and decides to call it. Wrangling up the least drunk acolytes in the square she corrals Miguel. He tips over when they get to him so Chel just has him hauled up the temple steps. They dump him into his waiting bath for a thorough scrubbing. Miguel groans in pleasure, lolling against the side. He's on the verge of snoring before they coax him back out and into clean clothes. After three failed tries of stuffing him back into his original shirt Chel rolls her eyes and just goes with another hip wrap.

Once he's presentable for tomorrow morning Chel has her helpers carry him to bed before dismissing them. Despite the luxurious size of the mattress Miguel hunkers down on the edge of one side. He trails a hand over the emptiness beside him, drowsy contentment veering into wistfulness. Then the god blearily raises his head. His gaze catches Chel's and he mumbles something too low to hear.

Chel swallows and creeps closer. Then closer still when she _still_ can't make out what he's saying.

"Yes, Miguel?" she prompts when she's just inches from his bedside.

_"Arkhos Phêlêteôn."_

Words this time, if still utterly alien.

"...What?"

Miguel grins, the sadness falling away as he presses something into her hand. At first she thinks they're the pipes from earlier. But they're not; they're too small, too plain.

"Lord of Thieves," he breathes. Chel shivers, for that is not _Miguel's_ title.

The god drifts off into sleep, leaving his priestess with only a set of pipes not her own. She tiptoes away from his side and back to the temple's main chamber. Curiously she raises the instrument to her nose and sniffs. She smells wilderness; but not the damp and heady jungle. Her mind flashes to another place, with sparser trees and crisp wind.

"Thank you," she whispers to the image of the Dual Gods, happy and whole. It matters not if that second god guided Miguel to Manoa or her to him. What matters is that if she had not him and Altivo today she would most certainly already have bled out upon the Jaguar God's altar for her crime. "You saved my life today. I may have been a thief, but now you let me be so much more."

Chel considers the pipes so lovingly given. She leaves them upon an empty throne. When its true holder arrives he'll know just where to find his music.

Chel settles down onto the couch for a deep, restful sleep. Despite Tzekel-Kan and his followers waking her before dawn the next day she still feels utterly rested. She recalls a very good dream, even if she forgets precisely _what_ she dreamed of the moment her eyes snap open.

Miguel sleeps through the acolytes bundling him into his litter, even as he clutches a pillow like a lifeline. When dawn first colors the horizon he snorts awake. He leaps out before his carriers even can even lower the litter to the ground, receiving the roaring crowd with aplomb. Chel roves a keen eye over them, scattering flowers before Miguel. For a city woken up before dawn after a raging party they're all remarkably chipper. Miguel winks at her, because of course healing the hangovers he helped cause would be his first big miracle.

"This city has been granted a great blessing," Tzekel-Kan declares. "And what he have we done to show our gratitude? A meager _celebration_." Chief Tannabok stands impervious to his scorn. His festival will probably go down as the greatest of their generation. "The gods deserve a proper tribute! The beginning of a new era, the dawning of a new age, demands... _sacrifice!"_

Those not yet in the know gape at zealous Tzekel-Kan summoning up a _dog_ as the Dual Gods' first offering. But people cheer louder. Dogs are already sacrificed beside the dead, so that a soul might have a guide through Xibalba, and a decoy to throw the Jaguar God's way so they won't be devoured instead. Chel casts aside her flower basket for an empty bowl.

Before he brings the knife down the high priest spares Miguel a searching look. The dog is black as night. The god nods in approval. Down comes the blade. The dog, heavily drugged, scarcely thrashes as its lifesblood stains the altar red. Some drips down to Xibalba's roaring waters. Chel catches most in her bowl. It stains her fingers as she presents it to her lord.

A fond smile graces his face when he raises the bowl skyward. "I devote this life to my partner, the god called Benefactor, who cannot be hurt and who does not hurt. Such is my right, for I am Miguel, called Distributor by Lot."

He flings the blood high. Its rains down into the whirlpool below. Tzekel-Kan curiously peers down after it and then to the empty air, but the Benefactor does not appear. Chel refills her bowl. This one Miguel drains dry. The third bowl Chel fills he once more offers to his partner. They repeat the process until the corpse bleeds out.

"Splendid," he effuses as he licks the last bit of red from his lips. "Absolutely splendid. Do you perhaps have anything bigger for another ceremony tomorrow?"

"Deer, my lord," Chel smoothly suggests before Tzekel-Kan can offer up the obvious. "We have powerful stags in our woods."

"My lord, we-"

"Yes! Thank you, Chel." The god grins at the priest. "Well, Tzekel-Kan? Do you reckon your hunters can capture one live for this time tomorrow?"

"W-We can, my lord, but-"

"Oh, don't sell your hunters short." Miguel clasps his hands cheerfully together. "I am also called Hunter. Rest assured, there's nothing to worry about getting that sacrifice on time. Not while I'm around."

Tzekel-Kan's protests die down into weary acceptance at the god's unwavering insistence. Chief Tannabok grins and offers up his own tribute. Miguel beams at the first baskets of glittering gold and the whole dawn shines brighter with him.

"To Xibalba?" the chief queries, for such is the custom, and where Miguel had offered the first lot of tribute.

Golden brows furrow down at the churning waters before his shoulders square. "My partner and I shall bask in the reverence that has been shown to us right up here, thank you. Already we have dwelt far too long in darkness."

Chief Tannabok bows, guiding the procession onward and upward to the temple. Miguel pointedly settles to one side of his litter, to remind the world he does not rule alone. Chel is content to follow in his footsteps. Instead Altivo sweeps through the people, kneeling low enough for her to slide hesitantly astride. The Horse God prances beside the litter. After her initial burst of exhilaration fades Chel sits high and regal upon him, like a priestess should. Gods could she get used to this.

Together she and Miguel arrange the piles of tribute from taking up all the floor space in the temple, for she is speaker of the Dual Gods and Miguel one such god himself. When the last sorters are shooed out Miguel falls over the pile with a groan of pleasure. Chel can't help but giggle at the sight. The god only grins back and pats the spot beside him. She pauses a long while before easing down.

"Comfy, isn't it?"

Chel considers what she lays upon. What should be cold metal is oddly warm and obliging beneath her. "Surprisingly so."

"Part of it's yours, you know."

_"What?"_

He shrugs at the massive hoard. "Even with _his_ appetites this is a hell of a first offering. And you're our priestess. You speak for us like no other can."

Chel has not yet heard his partner speak, does not yet know even a name for him. But Miguel is close enough to touch, warm and bare-chested beside her. Before she does something stupid she rolls off the gold. Really the only thing she needs from the pile is a proper pair of gold earrings to mark her new status and show she is no longer a lowly Vine acolyte, afforded only plain green stone.

She tries and fails to find the perfect pair. Finally Miguel sighs and abandons his basking.

"Have you considered a change in perspective?"

"I don't know what you- Oh."

With a grand flourish Miguel pulls a dress from thin air. It is vibrant red trimmed in white, the sort of dignified garb only allowed to priestesses and true women of power, not acolytes only allowed enough to cover their modesty.

"Oh," she breathes. "Thank you. It's absolutely perfect." It absolutely is. She takes it from his hands and know it just the right size.

Miguel smiles, shrugging back. "It's the least I could do. Can't go having any p... priestess of mine feeling like she can't take on the world."

For a moment she half-hopes and half-dreads he'll stay to watch her dress like she did to him the night before. Instead he strides to the edge of the temple, leaning against a wall as he gazes out to the city beyond. Chel bites her tongue before she can invite him back. Guiltily she turns from him to two waiting thrones, upon which her pipes sit yet unclaimed. The empty eyes of the Dual Gods stare down at her as she swiftly strips and dresses.

Once changed Chel creeps back to the god's side. He still gazes down at Manoa in wistful longing.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he sighs without ever turning her way.

"You know, these are _your_ people. You really don't have to watch them from afar like this."

"I know. But I-" Finally Miguel sees her. His face slacks in stupefied awe. "Chel, y-you look..."

"I know." She grins at his speechlessness, twirling around so the skirt flares dramatically around her. "I look like Tzekel-Kan finally has to _listen_ to me, yeah?" She can't have that bastard speaking for _her gods._ She's their priestess, dammit!

"More like he should be groveling before your feet," Miguel blurts out. "And I should totally do the... Er." He clears his throat, gazing out to Manoa again. "And I should totally do the godly thing and stay above the populace. Gawking at them like a tourist isn't exactly befitting my dignity."

Chel considers him, green eyes and godly garb and all. Even a change of clothes and shaving that beautiful beard can't hide the uniqueness of his features. But he is a _god._ Who says this face is the only one he has? "Is disguising yourself an option?"

Miguel blinks down at himself in confusion. Understanding and more puzzling emotions twitch across his face. "W-Well, yes, but... Not yet. This is _my_ face. H-He knows me like this. It's best I stay right up here, right like this. How is he supposed to find me otherwise?"

Chel's heart aches at his loneliness. She scowls down at the city, chewing her lip in thought. Ah, to hell with it. "Miguel, you're a _god."_

"Yes."

"One of the Lords of the Fifth World."

"...So I am. Apparently."

"Who can stop you from _doing whatever you want?"_ She smirks at his utter bewilderment. "My only wish is to serve the gods, remember? So I want what you want. Why not go forth among your people? The more that behold you, the more word will spread, and the less anyone will have to look for you."

Miguel gapes. He seems so stunned by the prospect that Chel grins back, takes a tempting step down the temple, and offers her hand to him. Not one he'll take, of course, just an invitation to the rest of his immortal life.

But take it Miguel does. She squeals in delighted surprise as they leap down the steps at a pace no mortal can ever match.

Manoa's interior is beautiful, with wide paved streets and clean canals. Miguel gushes over the architecture and city planning to her, because she is both his priestess and the _only soul_ around to listen, and apparently he's a god of founding towns on top of everything else. Chel nods at his enthusiasm, answers what questions she can, and tries not to stare at empty street after empty street. Eventually even the god catches on, frowning at a deserted market square that should be booming right now.

He fixates on the one soul in the street. Of course it's Chima, Tzekel-Kan's head warrior. "Excuse me," he calls. Chima turns, his automatic sneer at seeing Chel quailing into fear as he beholds Miguel himself. "Excuse me. Where is everybody?"

"They've been cleared from the streets, my lord, so the city can be cleansed." Chima's uncertain gaze flickers to Chel and the priestly garb she now wears. "As... was ordered."

Chel crosses her arms and grants Chima the same glare her grandmother perfected decades ago. "How... odd. Lord Miguel never expressed such wishes to me."

"Because I never did." Emerald eyes bore into Chima, who quails even further. "To... anyone."

At the sound of a commotion they turn to the sight of two burly warriors forcing a terrified man from the streets. In the blink of an eye Miguel is there. He wrenches the spears from their wielders. They snap like twigs in his hands. Petrified, the warriors fall to their knees, while Chel hurries to the side the man they knocked over.

"M-My lord, I-I-"

"Did you hear **_me_** speak?" the god rumbles above them. "Or the one woman hear I _let_ speak for me? Here's an order, take the day off. Immediately." The two warriors bow and flee. Miguel's merciless gaze snaps to Chima. "Not you. First, you tell Tzekel-Kan that any grand gesture he means to make for my partner and I must be approved by Lady Chel first. It is she who speaks for us, when we do not do so for ourselves. Any that dare... _presume_ otherwise will be punished for their hubris. And that I have no pity in my heart for tyrants."

Chima flees. Miguel's gaze softens as he turns to the last man in the streets, but the poor bastard only shrinks back in terror. Chel, much less threatening than the god she serves, smiles and offers her hand instead. "Are you all right?"

Her voice brings the man back to himself. "I-I am... my lady." He staggers back to his feet, only to sink into a deep bow before Miguel. "Thank you, my lord, for defending one as lowly as I like that. T-Thank you to you both."

Miguel advances. The man shrinks back. Only to blink in utter bewilderment when the god places warm, affirming hands on his shoulders. "You, sir, are not lowly. Not at all. It takes great courage to stand up to men like that and not let yourself be bullied back inside." He steps away, self-consciously folding his arms as he considers the people peeking behind their windows. "Not that I can actually go and order them all back inside after those brutes forced them all inside like that."

"You could persuade them," Chel points out. "You're... very convincing when you mean to be."

Miguel beams. The man collects him the tribute of a drum, some wood, and some string. He and Chel watch in baffled wonder as the god pieces them all into a working instrument. And then grin at the miracle his fingers strum. The gentle melody tempts terrified girls from behind Altivo, even the most cautious parents from their homes. Then he changes tunes, brightening their wonder into true joy. After teaching a curious soul in the crowd a few simple strums he and Chel steal away.

Chel shows her god every wonder Manoa has to offer. He grins at giant storks and Lake Parime's turtle ferries. She helps him recreate a sunrise with bone-sticks and soars beside him and the dancers of the pole. They are never entirely alone. For all he never appears, Miguel reminisces on his partner. The turtle prompts him to remark his partner made him his first lyre out of a tortoise shell, the cranes of that time his partner got _really_ into ibises, how swift he flies from one world into the next.

When they bump into Altivo again they also run into boys that eagerly drag them both into a ballgame. As a kid Chel always beat out her brother's friends always wanted her o their team. With kids as her competition she's of course second best after the god himself. They easily bounce the ball between each other and then to their playmates. Because of the wide age range on the field and lack of clear goals, the only goal is to keep the ball off the ground. Miguel needs to cheat only once or twice, blinking across the field to save the ball when no one else is there for it.

Gradually their game attracts a crowd and more players, even Chief Tannabok himself. But Miguel is focused on the kids. Apparently he and his partner were nightmares for their parents, as the stories slip out of him one by one - the thefts from each other, the pranks, daring one another to kill monsters or tick off scary relatives. The children are stunned to realize how naughty child gods could be and their parents horrified at the examples given. Miguel's tacked on groundings and punishments don't mean much when he and his idiot partner just break them in the next story.

Suddenly Miguel's good mood evaporates. Chel follows his glare just in time to spot Tzekel-Kan pale and scurry out of sight. For the children's sake, he plasters on another smile, and politely asks Chief Tannabok where a god might blow off some steam.

This is how the crowd migrates to the training grounds. Most expect Miguel to go straight for a spear-thrower, the sacred weapon of the gods. Chel bites back a grin when he instead goes for the bow and arrow because of course he's also called the Shooter from Afar and unlike any other deity out there. Miguel lands perfect bull's eyes on every target before he moves to shooting apples from the heads and mouths of eager volunteers. He takes shots backward or with his eyes closed and lands every target.

Finally Miguel arcs his bow high. Chel squints after the arrow, flying fast and far for Tzekel-Kan's temple. "Did you just..."

"Just a warning." He scowls after it. "This time."

Chel can almost picture it; an arrow landing just before the Jaguar God's jade idol and causing his high priest to near wet himself. She smirks.

As the day draws to a close the crowd finally starts wandering back to their own homes. Miguel, already in love after a day together, stares hopelessly after them.

Chel inhales as she considers how many people Miguel met today have gold in their ears instead of green stone. "I think it's time you met _my_ people."

The god's eyes darken in understanding. She leads him away from the spacious training grounds, into the narrow and winding streets the People of the Vine are relegated to. Despite the growing dark Chel sees more than she ever has before. People watch them from their homes. Lady Paquini's idol winks at her when they pass. A rat, riddled with sores, snaps at the heels of a boy running for home.

Chel's heart flies to her throat when the boy trips. The rat leaps for him. And poofs into a noxious cloud of smoke when Miguel's arrow strikes the base of its skull.

The boy, Patli, gapes from the arrow to the archer past it. He slams into Miguel's chest but doesn't cry. Their job is not yet over.

"Show us," Chel murmurs.

Patli squeezes their hands and pulls them onward, into a dilapidated house stinking of sickness. Miguel orders them to the bottom of the stairs. Chel stalks after him. On the floor above lies a woman, frail and haggard, rasping for every breath. Atop her chest crouches a child-sized rat, matted fur marked by sores. Its beady black eyes sneer them at them both.

"Who," it squeaks, "are _you_ supposed to be?"

Miguel flashes his teeth in what cannot be called a smile. "I am Miguel, called Healer and Averter of Evil."

The demon laughs scornfully. "Do you suppose yourself one of the Dual Gods? Where's your partner, little pretender? What hell does he rot in?"

Miguel's face twists into a hateful glare. He lunges at the rat does. Yellow teeth snap on empty air. The god's hand seizes it by the throat, slamming it to the floor. Miguel does not bother with his bow. Instead he wrenches a piece of wood from the wall. "My partner is called Immortal Guide, for he dwells in this world and the world below. To him I sacrifice your life tonight, and all other pestilence that dare infest the hearts of our people."

Miguel brings his club down. The rat demon evaporates into foul smoke as the woman behind them takes her first deep, healthy breath in days. Stained by foulness the end of the club bursts into flame. After a moment's bad smell the torch burns high and bright as the sun in Miguel's hands. He smiles fondly at it, before holding his hand out to Chel.

"Would you mind holding this?"

Chel takes the torch. In her grip the light gentles, no longer harsh and accusatory. Miguel helps Patli's mother sit up. Healthy color floods into her cheeks at his healing touch. Her son flies into her arms, weeping his joy.

Miguel's gaze swings outwards, for more evil awaits. Patli and his mother do not let him leave until he takes a biscuit as humble, heartfelt tribute. Chel smiles awkwardly when one is pressed into her hands too. She eats it just to be polite.

Miguel cuts down pestilence with his bow or naked hands. Chel settles for burning it out. The torchlight strips away the shadows the things try to hide in, burns away putrid disease without ever harming living flesh. Together Chel and her god scour Manoa free of sickness by midnight.

As Miguel hunts down the very last ailment, Chel's gaze flickers to an alley. A black dog whimpers longingly, gaze fixated on her light. She recognizes it as the same Tzekel-Kan sent down to Xibalba that very morning.

"Here," she murmurs, crouching low. "I don't need it anymore."

The dog snatches the burning brand in its jaws, tail wagging gratefully. Then it turns away from her.

Behind her Miguel's breath hitches. He does not chase after the dog as it runs away from them and this world entirely. Instead he walks to her side to murmur, _"Oiopolos."_ He presses something small and smooth in her hand. It is an ordinary rock and also so much more. "Shepherd."

Chel smiles. It means her people need never fear Xibalba again. They will never be lost, not with a shepherd to show them the way to paradise, and fight off whatever threat stands between them. When they return to the temple she reverently lays the stone upon the empty throne, beside the pipes also yet to be claimed.

Miguel ghosts a hand over the tribute without ever touching it. His lips quirk her way. "I've talked an awful lot about my partner today, haven't I?"

"You are the Dual Gods," she points out. "Manoa can't picture one without the other."

"Maybe it's time I talked a little bit more about myself." He pauses. "You deserve that much, at least. As our priestess." Together they settle onto the couch. It's safe territory compared to the bed or the thrones. Miguel smiles sheepishly. "Well, maybe not entirely about me. Not at first. First it starts with my parents."

Chel nods avidly. Manoa knows next to nothing about the Dual Gods, short of them coming down to make the Fifth World and disappearing for a thousand years. "I'm listening."

"Once upon my parents were king and queen over the world. Not _this_ world, of course, but still they ruled. They were good to the land and to their people." Miguel's face falls. "My uncle didn't like that. Not one bit."

Chel nods mutely. Jealous gods have unmade worlds before. The Two Suns ruled the Third World prosperously, until the envious Crocodile God maimed Lady Kama and devoured Lord Kinich. That is why the moon hides away her face away in the day and can only shine full one night of the month. Such is the point why the Fifth World has only one half of a sun, for Lord Kinich must die every dusk and be reborn at dawn, for the Hero God could only save so much of his soul from Xibalba.

"So my uncle murders my dad, his own brother, and throws his body into the sea. But my mom didn't give up hope. She flew halfway across the world to find where the tide had spat him up." The god's fists clench into the pillows. "Oh, you can guess my uncle _hated_ that. Mom thought she'd hidden his body safe and sound when flew off to gather what she needed for her spell. But that bastard found my dad anyway. This time he just can't throw his body into the sea. No, he has to make _sure._ He chopped his own brother's body up, and scattered him to the winds, piece by piece."

Chel claps her hands to her mouth. Gods don't _die,_ not like mortals can. Even the Crocodile God will only be eternally _dying,_ not dead, his death throes the earthquakes and his blood drop a new crocodile egg in the world above. To think of Miguel's father in a fate even worse than what her dad suffers in the Jaguar God's jungle...

"Oh," she breathes. She hugs him tightly, piety be damned, and is somehow not surprised when Miguel squeezes back.

"But that's not the end, Chel," he murmurs into her ear. "Mom never gave up. She scoured the four corners of the earth for every part my uncle had thrown away. She brought my dad back, piece by piece." His green eyes glint when he pulls away, staring intently into her own. "When he lay whole once more my mom breathed new life into him. In their embrace, well..." He smirks. "I was the third miracle my mom pulled that day, after what she did for my dad."

Chel giggles. "Of course you were." She glances to that empty throne as understanding dawns. "D-Do... you take more after you mom?"

Miguel follows her gaze. He twines his hands with hers. "This time I _most definitely do."_

On the couch they fall asleep side by side. Once more Chel dreams and awakes refreshed, even if it is not yet dawn and she forgets her dream upon opening her eyes. Miguel whimpers when she extricates herself from his arms, but only buries himself deeper into his dream and whatever meets him there. This time Chel commands the acolytes into gently bearing the god into his litter. He never stirs on the procession back to the altar.

Tzekel-Kan awaits, chest puffed out and a deer docile at his side. His glare intensifies when she refuses to shrink away. " _Lady_ Chel."

"Tzekel-Kan," she returns coolly. "Thank you, but I'll take it from here."

"I-"

As the sun breaches the horizon Miguel arises from his slumber. The crowd falls silent at his golden blade. In his grip it shines bright as noon.

"The gods deserve a proper tribute," Chel calls out to the crowd. "Together the Dual Gods rose a new world after the Crocodile God's spite destroyed the last. They granted us gold, to stop the senseless sacrifice of human lives, and limit them to all but the gravest of circumstances. But today the Dual Gods are not _grave._ They smile upon us from the worlds above and below, deign to walk among us so we might be blessed to know divinity, and they us, as we never have before. Today is not a day to grieve another given to the gods, but to celebrate the bounty given to us, and honor them in turn!"

Manoa cheers. Today there is no Person of the Vine bound and drugged for the cudgel. Beneath Miguel's gaze the proud stag walks meekly onto the altar seemingly of its own free will. The god hands his blade to Chel. She brings it down and turns the altar red as dawn.

"I am Miguel, called Bearer of the Golden Blade. I devote this blade and this life to my partner, called Champion, for we shall protect you in this world and the next! There will be no more human sacrifices. Not now, and not ever!"

Tzekel-Kan's jaw drops, but his spluttered outrage is lost beneath the roaring crowd. Miguel accepts the bloodied sword from Chel. The high priest's furious protests fall silent beneath the god's gaze, the blood that all drains from his sword into Xibalba's swirling waters below. Pointedly Miguel swings it his way before sheathing it at his side.

This sacrifice Chel calls to be served, for though the gods claim every life ended in their honor the meat almost always goes to the people. Miguel winks at her. Though the deer can comfortably feed a good number of people there is somehow enough meat to feed _all_ of them. The first portion goes to a father and daughter that just burned her poor twin the night before. Their sadness is tempered by the certainty their Champion and Benefactor safely saw young Cera into Lady Eupana's paradise.

The celebration rages for hours. Every soul in Manoa has been miraculously healed of their ills. Even the old dance as they've not danced in decades. At dusk Miguel raises his wine to the great bonfire burning merrily in the city center. "I am Miguel, called He of the Horizon. I devote today to my partner, the Giver of Good Things. May he make all our days as merry as this one!"

Chel is the first to take up his cry. The people follow. They pour out their wine and their pulque onto the fires. For a moment the sunset pulses bright blue as the flames leap high. Chel's eyes search the crowd. _Still_ they are alone.

Miguel does not party into the late into the night. This time he retires shortly after dusk. Chel joins him. Together they eye the empty throne.

"How long?" Chel murmurs.

Miguel can't bite back his smile. "Not long. Not long at all. Nine... Nine is a good number. One he's always been fond of. I've just... sped it up a bit this time."

"...Okay." What else is there to say to that? She counts them out - five epithets given to the people, and two she keeps alone.

Her breath hitches when he pulls a pair of well-loved dice from his heart. His hand twitches as if to hand them to her but his fingers refuse to let go.

"Chel," he grits out. "Chel. Please. These you'll have to take from me. I-I... I just _can't._ "

Chel understands. Oh gods does she understand. Even a god's faith might falter with what's at stake. How can Miguel give up his last piece of his partner, if it might be the last he can ever cling to?

"Partners?" she blurts out, sticking out her hand. Miguel stares.

"...What?"

"If we're partners then we're in this together, no matter what." She manages to smile for him. "Partners don't let partners give up. Not now, not ever. Manoa is my home, Miguel. It always will be, no matter how far I try to run away from it. That means Manoa is your home too, just like it's _his._ We'll help him find his way back to us. However long it takes." She sticks her arm out further. "Partners?"

"...Partners."

Miguel thrusts out a trembling hand. She shakes it emphatically. Then Chel carefully pries his fingers apart, until the dice slip from his sweaty palm into her own. She kisses them reverentially then leave them upon the throne, for their true owner to finally claim.

"There," she murmurs. "He can find them now."

 _"Polytropos."_ A pause. _"Callidus."_ A hysterical chuckle. "Hell, even _Fjölnir_. Why not?"

Chel parses out three tongues, all unrelated to each other. Not that it matters. They all more or less mean the same thing. Somehow she knows this like the sky is blue. "...Wily?"

"Something like that." Miguel slumps wearily onto the couch. "Close enough to count."

They fall asleep huddled together. It's not enough. It will never be enough, with just the two of them. But for now the warmth of another body lets them drift off to somewhere else.

With dawn on the horizon Miguel stirs from a restless sleep. Chel rises with him.

 _"Phoibos,"_ she whispers. She grins blearily when he jolts against the back of the couch. _"Horios."_ Her expression morphs into a triumphant smirk. "You're Lord Miguel, called the Bright and the Lord of Boundaries, aren't you?"

"H-H-How..."

"That makes nine titles for you, doesn't it?" She taps her temple as a fragment of dream comes back to her. "He says you still owe him one."

Miguel stammers and stares. He laughs when understanding dawns. He leaps up from the couch, spinning her with him, and plants her on the floor. But not before kissing her full on the lips. Chel giddily rises up to meet him.

Into the new morning they race, all the way down to Lake Parime. Altivo meets them there in a gust of wind. He snorts darkly, pawing at the earth at the acrid stench his breeze carries with him. Miguel and Chel follow his gaze to smoke on the horizon. Together they smirk viciously at this great threat to their city, a sacrifice Tzekel-Kan cna never hope to match.

"If I watch the borders, than you are called the great God of the Gateway, to strike them down on our people's behalf. I devote every one I strike down this day to _you,_ my Propylaios."

"That's nice," quips a voice from beside them, "but shouldn't that be _my_ job?"

Together they whirl to face a stranger. Only, Chel knows him; thick black hair, blue eyes, smug smirk and all. His face graces every idol of the Dual Gods. For the past three nights she has met him in her dreams. Miguel stammers wordlessly so Chel squints and tries to fill in the last great blank.

"You... You were Pan, weren't you?" So he had introduced himself, the night of the panpipes.

The god considers this and shrugs. "Eh. Some of the time."

"Then... you were Hermes? Or... had been at the same time you were Pan?" It's not entirely clear, but Chel knows that stone given to her had been offered upon the very first cairn that had granted this god life.

"...Something like that, yeah." He grimaces. "And that's why you don't go disowning parts of yourself. It makes picking up the pieces a nightmare." His face gentles as he beholds a thunderstruck Miguel. "Not like that stopped you, eh, partner?"

"T-T- _Tulio?"_

The god puffs out his chest. "In the flesh. Metaphorically speaking."

"Y-You were..."

"Yeah," sighs Tulio. "I know. But it's not like I haven't been before. Nine days and nine nights by the Norse account, right?" He smiles at Chel. "You and your partner whittled it down to a third of that time!"

Miguel finds it in himself to bluster with affront. "On top of _nine hundred years!"_

"Er..."

Before he can stutter out an excuse Miguel tackles him. The gods fall in a laughing, sobbing heap, bestowing each other worshipful kisses. Chel beams through her tears and inches away to grant them some privacy. But Tulio pulls away from his partner and stops her cold.

"Wait!" Tulio stares desperately after her, for all one arm remains twined around Miguel. "You're Chel, aren't you?"

"So I am." She wipes some of her tears away. "It's nice to meet you properly this time, Tulio."

The god grins and holds out a hand to make it official. They shake. He pulls his hand away. Chel blinks down in bewilderment at the weight left in her palm.

"Well?" he prompts.

"Oh," she breathes. "They're perfect." They absolutely are. Chel casts away earrings of heavy green stone for gold and holy jade. She beams. "Thank you, Tulio."

"They're the least of what I owe you." Blue eyes flick to Miguel before Tulio presses another tender kiss to his brow. "What _we_ owe you. But right now duty calls."

Chel scowls up at the black smoke and all the evil most definitely beneath it. "Of course." She frowns when the gods get up, only for them to both extend a free hand to her. "...What?"

"Our home is your home, right?" Miguel queries innocently. "That makes our people yours to protect."

"If you want to... partner." Tulio smiles sheepishly, hand shaking where Miguel's is certain. But Chel only smirks and seizes them both.

Piece by piece, they make their city a true paradise. Cortes and his men die bit by bit, as disease and disillusionment set in and they turn upon each other. So do Tzekel-Kan and his Jaguar God fade away into obscurity, as the three Lords of the Fifth World chip away at his cult and its relevance. Piece by piece, Chel's shattered family is made whole with every soul plundered from the Lords of Xibalba, just as she and her gods guide every last spirit in the spirit world onward to Lady Eupana's paradise.

But those are stories for another time.

One of the first pieces, one Lord Tulio finds _very_ important, goes something like this:

"Oh, _thank gods!_ Thank you, sweet merciful fates!"

"...Says the god."

A huff. " _Please,_ Miguel. Like your family has the best track record at keeping all the pieces in order."

"His mom did it once!"

A roll of the eyes. "Pft. Sure. Except the part that got eaten by an elephantfish."

_"What?"_

"Dad was made whole in the end, so it turned out all right! That part wasn't worth telling you, Chel, really! It might've jinxed us."

"...What part did she lose?"

A conspiratorial laugh. "Let's just say making Miguel was the biggest miracle his mom pulled that day, even after resurrecting her husband and putting _most_ of him back together."

"You don't mean-"

"Oh, I do."

_"Tulio!"_

A fond roll of the eyes. "Like being conceived by a magic penis was the weirdest way to be born back in the day. I had to get the _freaking moon god_ drunk so your parents could be-"

"I'm not hearing this!"

"Your parents say hi, by the way."

_"...What?"_

So another piece falls into place, on the eternal journey to be whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Osiris got murdered by Set back in the day. By the Greek account Isis had to find his severed body parts, but couldn't get to the most important part before a fish ate it. This is why the Greeks believed Egyptians considered the elephantfish taboo and how Horus got conceived by a magic penis XD Apollo was partly syncretized with Horus and so picked up a set of parents he REALLY took inspiration from. Of course back in the day Ra-Horakty died every dusk to be reborn as the dawn, but that's a story for another time ; )
> 
> Hermes and Pan probably began as one deity back in the day. Odin was believed to by the Romans to be the German form of Mercury - who hung himself for nine days and nine nights for wisdom and some such. So this isn't the first time at leas a piece of Tulio has died. With three pieces returned to Tulio a day, that cuts the time considerably in Manoa. Another piece of him happens to be Thoth (Hermes' Egyptian counterpart to the Greeks), who totally got the moon god drunk to gamble away some of his light. This is how he ensured Isis and Osiris could be born when Ra forbade them from being born on any day of the year - so Thoth went out and made his own damn days :p
> 
> All of Tulio's given epithets are translations from legit Greek sources - though one also gets given a Latin form, and a rough equivalent of one of Odin's names. Miguel's are almost all for Apollo. The exception (He of the Horizon) belonged to Horus.


	21. seawater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every one of their drinks kind the seawater at some point. In fact, they live and breathe the sea. They are seal folk, after all. However they began, nothing can change that now.
> 
> Or in which our idiots are bored selkies looking for a change of pace and Chel in dire need of spirits to promote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or in which why authors should not listen to Celtic music when trying to write something else.

Once upon a time, there lived a fisherman with hair like gold and eyes green as the sea. He looked out to the wide open seas and dreamed of sailing them out to Tir na Nog and whatever else awaited in the west. Not that he ever did. His family could only fish so far from shore in their little, beat-up boat. He had a father and brothers beside him, to roll their eyes at his dreaminess and bring him back to earth, lest some fairy seek to snatch him away. They had a mother and sisters awaiting them on land, the oldest brothers wives and children of their own.

His name might have been something like Micheal or Micheil, back then. In that time God was still new to his homeland, the old faith still living warily beside Him and all His saints. That fisherman minded his manners. So did his family. Perhaps in their little stone church they professed allegiance to one power and one power alone. Out at sea it did no one good to scorn the older powers. All seamen knew this. That's why the village sneered they were superstitious, because even they knew their behavior was not quite blasphemy. 

The superstitious that remembered to throw the right offering into the capricious sea or avert their eyes in time from a sensitive sight were those humble of its strength. Mindful of the ocean's fickle whims, the superstitious got to come home sometimes. Sooner or later, the arrogant never did.

But, even to those that respect its strength, the sea is fickle. For that fishermen and his family that storm rolled in too hard. There was no escaping it in time. They battened down the sails, lashed themselves to the mast, and prayed.

Their ship dashed itself upon the rocks. Yet what the sea took, so it gave. The oldest brother and two others were spat up clinging to debris, coughing up seawater and dragged before the healer's hearth. Their father and three brothers washed onto shore, gray and still. At least they could be granted Christian burial.

But not their youngest brother, the baby of the family, with hair like gold and eyes green as the sea.

No. She'd liked him too much to ever give him up. He'd thrown her a fish from time to time, had sang the old, sad songs in that merry voice of his. How could she let those glorious eyes, dim, let that voice die out as only a stream of bubbles?

If the sea would have him, then he would be the sea's, forever and always.

His family believe him gone, not dead. Never dead. How could their Micheal (or Micheil or whatever variant of the name) be dead, when he'd loved- _still loves,_ the sea and the old tales beyond all else? The maids on land had adored him, idealistic and beautiful idiot he was. Of course the local seal maid had snatched him up for herself. She'd taken him to her palace under the sea, granted him a skin of his own so that he still might visit the realm above.

In the beginning his family glimpse him from time to time, a grey seal larger than all the others, frolicking in the waves and lured to shore by the strum of a harp.

Not that the seal ever comes truly ashore, not like that. Folk in the village already know not to harm seals, lest they invite a dying curse upon themselves. Stealing a sealskin only ever invited heartbreak for all involved. Every tale says so.

In time his family pass from one world into the next, as age and illness take them, but never the sea. In their waters they have a sympathetic ear to their pleas. As his links to the land break, one by one, so does he lose his fear of being trapped in a world no longer his own. Curiosity tempts him up from the waves and past the reefs, to put his skin aside and remember the shore a fisherman lost so long ago. He might follow a maiden's tears and grant her seven nights of escape from her earthly cares or a man seeking bonds no church these days will bless. He'll lead ships to safe harbor or fertile fishing grounds, if they think to throw him a part of their catch or simply grace him a pretty smile.

When invaders strike even the shores his homeland, he leaves them behind. The oceans are vast and his mortal family dust in their graves. Where Celtic tongues pass on the tales of his people, there he finds shores worth visiting. From the Outer Hebrides he saunters his way south, from the Isle of Man to the shores of Wales and Ireland both. Upon reaching the end of the Irish Sea he braves the Celtic Sea, for in Armorica echoes the tongue of cousins even further removed.

The friendly spirits in these waters are few and far between. Those he meet bemoan the slow death of their people, as centuries beneath the Roman yoke and those of later oppressors have stolen their language and now their cultural heart. Yet a ghost of it still lingers along the coasts and in the Breton fishermen who still readily ply the waters. It's enough to tempt him all the way down to Iberia.

In this age Iberia is still amenable enough to seals. They can still be found in the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, not yet starved from over-fished waters or clubbed to death on every beach. There is room enough for a solitary selkie to charm begrudging affection from fishermen and far greater acclaims on land.

One night, when he is just growing bored enough to consider making his way back north, a storm wakes him from where he serenely dreamed enough the waves. It is the sort of storm that once birthed him.

He swims fast as he can, breaking the waves in his sealskin when he happens upon the wreck. He is not the fickle sort of spirit to delight in the suffering of men, even those Christians who have no love for his kind at all. Nor is the spiteful kind to try and make more of himself, to deny a soul its place in heaven. For his rebirth a part of him is still a man still. It is the part of him mortal enough to die. It is the part that brings him to shore, again and again, as he drags as many souls as he can.

He saves most of them. Almost all of them.

But not the last. This poor man has drifted too deep, has too little life left in him to break the waves again.

Not that the man has quite realized he's dead. His limbs are still twitching for the surface, for all he deliriously sinks downward instead. Rather than inhale the sea he clings to his last gasp of breath. The sea around him is alight with the fervor of his prayers, of his spite, of that sheer, human drive to _live._

When the selkie swims before him his hazy eyes still manage to fixate upon him. Eyes green as the sea connect to eyes blue as the deep.

Within a heartbeat the selkie makes up his mind and casts his skin aside. _"Take my hand,"_ he murmurs in a tongue this man can't understand, but knows all the same. _"Please, take my hand."_

The man desperately twitches toward his one and only chance at salvation. He believes, suddenly and ferociously, that he can _live._

It is all the belief the selkie needs to take him into his arms, to breathe new air into his lungs and sweep his skin around them both. His sealskin warps and twists and grows, until it is one skin no longer.

In all his blurry centuries alive, hoarding near every scrap of power, he has never attempted to make another of his kind. He has never witnessed one formed since that dear seal maid shaped his skin from her own. But, to save this life, he does so reflexively.

Two selkies break away. One grins like an idiot. The new made one gasps frantically for every breath. Seals don't breathe water. Selkies are of the sea and their skins a matter of ease more than not.

Then he belatedly starts making gasping noises, when the newborn selkie realizes he should not be sucking in water like fresh mountain air. He's so confused and so offended by the impossibility of it all the older selkie can't help but laugh.

That night one selkie begins his second life. The other begins his third, for in finding his partner he has found himself anew.

Somewhere down the line they become Miguel and Tulio, Tulio and Miguel, sexy and cunning con artists. Who also happen to be seals some of the time. It's easiest to stick to Iberia, really. Those peoples up north might know enough about selkies to try stealing themselves some skins. Or burn them as monsters. Yeah, no. At least the Portuguese and the Spaniards only see seals to kill for their oil, instead of inhuman power they must bind at all costs.

Every once in a while, they venture out to stranger waters. Never for long. For all it changes, Iberia is still Tulio's home. He's Spanish in a way he can be, ugh, _French._ Spain is home. Spain is where they can con suckers to their hearts' content for gold and for kicks. Miguel pouts about it, but it's his own curiosity that always gets them chased back to sea with torches and pitchforks if they dare a foreign shore.

When Columbus confirms a New World beyond the sunset, Tulio rolls his eyes at Miguel's sudden wanderlust. Traversing the Mediterranean and the coast of the Atlantic is one thing. Heading out into godless open ocean that no seal or selkie has ever dared before is quite another.

Then comes Seville. Fucking Seville. Of all the ports in Spain, why make the one _fifty miles upriver_ the beating heart where every ship from the New World must come if it means to sell its goods in the empire? Tulio's selkie instincts always shriek at being so far away from the salt. His human side acknowledges the opportunities to be had. Miguel, the adorable idiot, is always just dazzled by a thriving city over a hundred thousand strong.

And the map. The crappy map to El Dorado. But Miguel pulls his little seal pup pout and it's not like Tulio can ever say know to that. That is how they run for it by making a flying leap into the water. Again. Only this time with a crappy map and a half-baked plan to find the city of gold, once they pull on their skins and slide down the Guadalquivir in stealth.

Hey, it's an adventure. And it's not like they haven't outlived their natural life expectancy by  _at least_ a good seven hundred years by now.

Maybe they actually find fabulous fortune. Why not? They've seen practically everything else under the sun (and sea) by now.

* * *

Those coastal villages along a certain stretch of the New World are sometimes treated to the odd sight of two grey seals bobbing in the water offshore, barking furiously at each other in a way that disturbingly reminds people of an old married couple. Those villages even _further_ south, where even vagrant seals from the gulf don't swim, wonder what the hell is up with the weird sea dogs. Or the weird scrawny manatees. Or mutant otters. Whatever.

Then, along a certain stretch of quiet coast, two sleek heads pop up again. They squint at one rock in particular. One immediately surges for shore. The other rolls his eyes and follows.

Upon reaching land the first seal waddles up gracelessly. Then he shucks his skin aside. Below he's still wearing the clothes from Seville. Miguel wrenches out his map. He checks and rechecks it, before grinning out to his partner. "Tulio! Tulio, we've done it! The whistling rock! The stream. Even those mountains!"

Reluctantly Tulio comes ashore. He slings his skin over his shoulders as he snatches the map and compares it against their surroundings. His eyes narrow before they near pop open. "Huh. Well, I'll be damned. The crappy map does lead to something."

"To El Dorado!"

Tulio grimaces at the grisly warning left behind. "To something worth killing over."

Miguel picks up the golden sword for himself. "Of course, Tulio! We're talking about a city so rich they can gild swords and leave them stuck in skeletons!"

His first impulse is to immediately cut a trail through those vines and truly start their adventure. Instead he circles anxiously back to his sealskin, sprawled out and drying in the sun. The seal maid that made him could bend water to her will, dry her skin or drown a man in no time flat. Having exhausted their energy on the long swim over, Tulio instead spreads out his skin beside Miguel's and sprawls out into the sand. With a sigh Miguel settles down beside him.

"Don't give me that face, Miguel. We know where to start tomorrow. Let's take a damn day to rest before charging off again."

Miguel pouts at his skin, dripping wet and far from cooperative. "Oh, fine."

They start up a proper fire to dry out and properly cook dinner for a change. Out in the middle of nowhere neither especially cares if they're sighted. The ocean is ten feet away and their skins in arm's reach. So they rest, gorge themselves on anything remotely edible that isn't fish or seaweed, and side-eye the armored rat thing that has climbed itself up on the eagle rock to stare shamelessly back.

"W-What _is_ it?"

"Someone like us. At the very least."

"....At least?"

Miguel sighs. Sometimes he forgets how young his partner is. "Well, it's not like the people here are properly acquainted with..." Considering their little eavesdropper, he nods purposefully upward. Tulio pales. Miguel grants the... spirit (please, let it just be a spirit) his best smile. "Don't mind us. Just bedding down for the night. Quite a long swim we had today, you know."

To be polite he tosses the creature part of the snake they caught and roasted. It crunches happily on its offering. Glancing at each other the selkies creep a little back toward the water and sleep atop their skins. They're light sleepers and a quick leap from safety, but nothing ever disturbs them. By dawn their skins are dry enough to fold and tuck away.

The trail they blaze is long and meandering, from one fantastic landmark to the next. Miguel is in awe of near everything, save the furry little bastards that try to run off with their things.

Tulio just grumbles he wished the stupid mapmakers had just followed the river. The river is nice, the river is safe, if one avoids the crocodiles and the pythons. It lets them ease their aching legs and coast along in their skins, to happily wolf down fish by the mouthful.

Besides their persistent little armored shadow, the local spirits they meet are thankfully few and far between. Except those pink jerks that call themselves river dolphins. They're just as rude as their marine cousins, with all the catcalls and stalking tendencies that make even affable Miguel roll his eyes and swim onward rather than ask for directions.

Their final stretch of the journey ends at a single stone statue before a waterfall tumbling into a wide bend of the river. Tulio stammers furiously at their empty surroundings. Before he can explode into a rant of epic proportions Miguel dives into the water. Under the surface his eyes gain crystal clarity. He grins at the deep channel that continues beneath the waterfall's churning current, into the cave system beyond.

He kicks for the surface. Freshwater is harder to breathe than salt. Miguel inhales the air deeply, grinning mischievously at his partner as he unfurls his sealskin, tucked away at his side. "Well, Tulio. _Plus ultra_ and all that."

"Now wait just a-"

Miguel spins into his sealskin and zips off. Tulio follows him a heartbeat later. And swears when he realizes how far they have to go.

Miguel has delved his fair share of ocean depths and sea caves back in the day. He knows the iciness of currents that have never known sunlight, the emptiness to waters no man has ever known to fear. Despite the dark this subterranean river is warm from a source bathed in tropical sun. Its depths stir with the languid annoyance of a massive presence too vast to be easily ignored by two little selkies just passing through.

"Don't mind us," Tulio murmurs anxiously, as the god of the dark weighs whether it's worth it or not to be annoyed. "We're, uh, tourists. Just having a look."

With light at the end of the tunnel they swim as fast as two seal folk can. They bark in triumphant laughter when they explode from the dark into the verdant lake beyond.

...A verdant lake teeming with fish the size of behemoths. Fish that hungrily eye the two little intruders to their domain.

"Oh f-"

* * *

Today is Chel's last in Manoa. Come this time tomorrow, she'll be well on her way to freedom. Or to Tzekel-Kan's altar. But preferably the first one.

As an acolyte Chel is entrusted with the daily cleaning of the Dual Gods' temple. Their residence must always be kept ready for an impending arrival one thousand years in the making. She's the very last one to be wrapping up with her tasks. She lingers by the window with the excuse of admiring the view. It's one fit the gods, from the tallest and grandest building in all the city.

It's a vantage point to scope out her escape route for tomorrow. It's her final chance to soak up the city of her birth. It was - still is - her home, for all her family was broken by its pestilence and the hungry mouths of its gods.

Her unmatched view of Lake Parime allows Chel to squint down at the sudden disturbance. Yikes, what has the kingfish so riled up? Gentle turtles toss their heads and boats bob perilously in the wake caused by the very largest of Lady Eupana's fish children.

From high up Chel can spot two dull gray shapes in the water, smaller than most kingfish but stark for their lack of vivid color. Then they dive down deeper and she loses sight of them. Lake Parime quiets down not long after. She grimly assumes the problem got taken care of. When the priests start deliberating over what the omen could have meant she keeps her sighting to herself. Distraction is good. If people are fretting over Lake Parime then they won't realize the Dual Gods are down an idol tomorrow.

As the day draws down Chel takes the long, scenic back to her last sleep in Manoa. Instead her feet guide her to a quiet canal. With no one around to see she curls up in a quiet corner. She stares down at her reflection, cast by the moonlight, and releases a shuddering breath.

She _has_ to run tomorrow. She's delayed long enough, nursed too many complicated plans. Grabbing a golden idol and running for it remains her best bet. Her only bet. Tzekel-Kan's been eying for a while now. Today's omen is all he needs to justify her as the next sacrifice. She's the daughter of the woman that offered herself up to Lord Xarayes when the kingfish died in droves, brother to the brave man Tzekel-Kan executed as a traitor.

"Thanks a lot," Chel whispers bitterly to the waters.

Once she thought he burned up all her tears on her mother, her father, her brother. Tonight she finds them again.

If Chel is keeping track, she might count seven tears wept into the canal before she angrily wipes them away. She glares down at her reflection. It ripples, before two shapes rise up to break it.

Chel stumbles back with a stifled scream. Only strangled curses escape instead. "No," she grits out. "No, no, _no._ I did not get to this point to by drowned by fucking... dolphins..."

She trails off, because the two shapes bobbing in the canal aren't dolphins at all. Besides, the shifty bastards never make it past the dark of Lord Xarayes' domain, much less into holy Lake Parime itself. These beings have broad, almost dog-like heads instead of narrow snouts bristling with teeth. They have flaring nostrils instead of blowholes. Instead of small black eyes, theirs are large and expressive, too intelligent to be anything but spirits. Hopefully those more trustworthy than freaking dolphins.

One stares at her. She stares right back. The one with green eyes swims some distance away. She and the other spirit both gape when it laboriously hauls itself up onto solid ground.

Up close it's as long as man, a form sleek in the water so many hundreds of blubbery pounds on shore. It's flippers... aren't quite flippers. She gulps at five black claws that scrape into the rocky sides of the canal. Chel flinches back but it just flops harmlessly back down. So she relaxes. She's too far back for the one in the canal to lunge up at her. On land the other one is too far away to sprint after her like a crocodile could. She doubts it can even do that, without even the stubbiest of clearly defined legs.

Then the spirit on land shudders. Its skin falls around the slim shoulders of a man. Dolphins make beautiful people, but wear hates to disguise the blowholes that follow them into human shape. This is spirit is beautiful too, but can't blend in half so well. His features are a tad too strange, even if it weren't for the golden hair and beard.

Chel stands up to run. The spirit doesn't budge. He remains sitting beside the canal, legs dangling into the water and hands clutching protectively at his skin.

"...What?"

The man-shaped spirit bites his lip, glances down at his partner in the water. "You cried," he answers softly, "so we came."

For a moment Chel is stunned by his earnestness. Then she crosses her arms firmly. "If you're asking me to join you in a lifetime beneath the water, thanks but no thanks." Because without air a human lifetime is measured only in minutes. "I've still got plenty to look forward to up here."

The man flinches guiltily back. "T-That's not..."

The one in the water rolls its eyes and hauls itself ashore beside its partner. He too turns out to be a man beneath the skin, even lankier and with long black hair sticking wetly to his back. "Look, sweetheart, unless you're _already_ drowning we don't want you down here. Really." Blue eyes peer suspiciously at her. "Usually people only cry seven tears for us because they need a shoulder to cry on or a good roll in the sand. But something tells me you don't know your selkie lore. So, what did you expect to get out of sobbing to seals?"

 _A chance to work out my gods damned stress in peace._ Chel bites back on her response as she considers her audience. "Depends. Do you feel comfortable offering more than emotional support?"

The dark-haired one clutches tightly at his skin. "We make shitty spouses, if that's what you're after." She can't help but roll her eyes at his stupidity, spirit or not. And blink when he sags in relief. "Oh, thank God."

 _Can you get me safely out of Manoa?_ Only how does she trust them to not consider underwater a valid escape route? Does she even _need_ to escape, if...

"What are you guys wanting from me?"

"Gold," deadpans the dark-haired one. Then he frowns down at his empty hands. "Though come to think of it we'd need a boat to haul off enough to be worth the trip back."

"...Maybe the chance to at least see your city would be more doable." The bearded one sheepishly waves at himself. "We don't exactly blend in with either skin here."

"That doesn't have to be a bad thing."

The spirits (selkies?) exchange an intrigued glance. "Go on," urges the dark-haired one.

Chel sucks in a breath and pastes on her brightest smile. "You two would appreciate some gold and a little more regard, right? I happen to know a way that could get you both. All you two have to do is just be... yourselves." Spirits get promoted sometimes, right? Why not these two? She can make a niche for them.

The golden one's eyes widen in understanding. The other, either suspicious or just slower on the uptake, frowns. "What's your angle?"

"No angle," she admits. "But if you two want to make a proper introduction you should have someone in your corner that knows the people here, right? Someone that knows the movers and shakers here, who can smooth any ruffled feathers and make sure you don't trod on any toes. Someone that can help speak for you and get you what you want."

"A... sponsor?"

"Of sorts."

"Tulio," laughs the golden one. "Tulio. She's more proposing to be our... middleman. Yes, a bridge between two worlds!" He winks over his partner's head, to let Chel know he knows exactly what she thinks they need. "A... speaker, you could say. I haven't had anything close in centuries. Not since my... Well, not in a very long time." He extends a hand. Chel tries not to stare. Even in human shape his fingers are webbed up to the knuckles and his nails are dark and long, like the claws of his fin. "Deal?"

"Deal," the golden one says brightly, while his partner splutters in outrage. At least Chel has one spirit to prop up as a minor divinity. Even being a minor priestess still makes her untouchable to Tzekel-Kan.

"Not yet," Tulio says, snatching back his partner's hand before they can shake on it. "Let's just see how this works out."

"Sure," she agrees. If they slip off quietly then Chel can still milk the priestess thing for a while longer. It at least buys her the time and connections to formulate a better plan to get the hell out of here. Maybe hitch a ride with these two, if she knows for sure they aren't just gonna drag her out to sea. "Call me Chel, your new p... partner."

"That's partner-in-training!"

"Right." The golden one offers his hand again, tilting his head so the fringe of his hair hides his wink. "Call me Miguel. My lovely partner here is called Tulio."

"I... Oh, _fine."_ Tulio shakes her own hand in resignation. "Hi. _Pleasure_ to meet you."

Chel beams. "Charmed." Sensing the long discussion ahead, she too settles down on the canal, legs dangling over the edge. "If I'm going to speak on your behalf, maybe we should start with a little more about you."

They wrap their skins closer around themselves. "First off, touching the skins is a no-go. Unless you _want_ to wind up eternally cursed."

"I'll pass, thanks." She rolls her eyes when they refuse to loosen their grips. "First off, those are literally a part of you. They're _yours._ The only idiots arrogant enough to cross a spirit are the idiots that make the best stories to tell kids how _not_ to be idiots. Is there anything else mortals should know not to push you on?"

They're selkies, if their type of spirit has a specific name, because _seals_ also happen to be a more mundane creature in isles across the distant sea and _finfolk_ describe a broader family. She is not surprised to discover them sea spirits hailing from horizons far past the sunrise. Fortunately they are not unopposed to freshwater rivers and lakes, even if just as a temporary home.

Miguel grins. "Oh, we found that palace down at the bottom of the lake. Lady Eupana is a wonderful hostess. We, er, cleared up any confusion about our arrival."

 _That's_ a relief.

Eventually the conversation steers to Chel herself. She grudgingly concedes enough of her circumstances that Tulio finally loses the last of the attitude from his posture. Once Miguel slips back into the canal he even offers her a quiet apology. She accepts it with a wan smile and steals back to her bed for a few hours of sleep.

Before dawn she steals back to the temple of the Dual Gods. It's the only source of gold she can snatch in time not outright consecrated to another power. But Chel is no thief. Her only wish to serve those she calls gods and to help others see them as such. With tribute in hand she doesn't scurry off in the shadows. No. She strides right down the steps of the great temple, down to the shores of Lake Parime.

When her actions are uncovered, for she makes no effort to hide them, the warriors hover anxiously at the edge of the dock. They know her as an acolyte and the tribute in her hands as one smelted in honor of the Dual Gods. With her kneeling in prayer, staring so intently out at the waters of Lake Parime, none dare intrude. Not directly anyway. Eventually Chima thinks to scurry off and rouse Tzekel-Kan. Let him come. At least Chel has heard from _her_ gods, who answered a humble woman's tears when the Jaguar God has provided his high priest only fleeting dreams, for all the blood and tribute offered in his name.

Her boys appear at dawn, leaping high and proud from Lake Parime's still waters. A seal is almost something like a sea wolf. They catch Manoa's eye even before their final lunge lands them on the dock. Before them Chel does a proper bow, lifting up her golden tribute in purposeful imitation of that iconic depiction on every stele of the Dual Gods. The growing crowd gasps when the selkies cast their skins aside, standing tall and proud.

"Hail the great gods of the distant waters," Chel declares, her voice carrying far and wide in the awed morning silence. "I behold the merciful lords who saved me from drowning, and lifted me up with new hope and new faith back into the world above. I come with tribute to bid them home. My only wish is to serve them."

Miguel graciously accepts her tribute. "Rise, Chel, speaker of the gods. I am Miguel, free as the sea, summoned to these shores by your sorrow. In serving us may you never know it again, and may you spread only freedom and joy in our stead."

"And I am Tulio, mighty as the tide, who never lets a cry for help go unanswered. May you spread our word far and wide, and peace and prosperity with it."

They smile warmly, beautiful in their strangeness and clutching their sealskins like the cloaks of great lords. Chel beams right back. The tears pooling in her eyes are not those of sorrow. Not ever again.

* * *

Chief Tannabok wakes to a real, honest to gods epiphany. Because two gods _have just appeared in physical form._ He hurries from bed in a haste he has not had since his first was born. Within minutes he's dressed to receive divinity and hopefully there to hail them before Tzekel-Kan can declare them the harbingers to the Age of the Jaguar.

Tannabok does not beat Tzekel-Kan. The two gods are still dripping wet from Lake Parime, their cloaks soaked as the strange animal skins around their shoulders. But they hang aloofly back while a young woman with the simple garb and green stones of an acolyte calmly addresses Tzekel-Kan in their stead. The chief bites back his pleased grin. These gods have already selected their speaker, and she is no servant of the Jaguar God.

Graciously he welcomes Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio, called Finfolk and Seal Lords. Their faces uncannily resemble those of the Dual Gods. They have no herald save their priestess, but their second skins make them more snakelike than not. Tannabok knows Chel was up until some hours ago an acolyte to their temple and that the tribute Lord Miguel has tucked under his arm to be from between two thrones long awaiting holders to fill them.

Tzekel-Kan draws the same conclusion. "O long-awaited lords! Come. Let me show you to your temple." He smiles thinly at their priestess. "With your leave, of course."

"Of course." Chel sweeps past him, her strides so long the high priest must struggle to keep up.

As their chief Tannabok catches up to them both within the first few steps. He is their highest earthly power in all Manoa. In introducing divinity the secular and spiritual must stand as one.

The gods of course hang back to create space between mortals and divinity. Tannabok tries not to eavesdrop. But the Seal Lords are loud whisperers and he has a trained ear, with so many little boys plotting mischief under his roof.

"H-Hey, Miguel? We're getting a little high here. And by little I mean _a lot."_

Oh dear. Perhaps marine gods would have been best with a temple upon the lakeside.

Lord Miguel laughs giddily. "Please, Tulio. This view is splendid!"

"H-How... How far do we range beyond _sea level?"_

"I used to do it all the time, back in the day. I was the smallest, you know, and the best climber, so I was the one always sent up the sea stacks. And in the summer there were these _great_ cliffs for diving. Maire and I-"

"Dear God did someone down there really like you."

"Well, _obviously."_

Upon reaching the temple proper the gods inspect it. Some of the tension falls from their shoulders upon sighting the artificial pool in the middle of the floor. Of course the tallest source of freshwater in all the city would help put their hearts at ease.

"To commemorate your arrival, I propose a reverent ceremony at dawn." Tzekel-Kan's gaze flicks to his right. "With guidance from your priestess, of course."

"Of course," Chel demurs. "The gods came to me last night. I have already divined the offering to best welcome them home."

Not to be outdone, Tannabok suggests he prepare a glorious feast for that very night, to hopefully rouse the city with a spectacular party before they must deal with the rigors of human sacrifice the day after. The Seal Lords acquiesce to both. Yet it is Chel they explicitly put in charge of the dawn ceremony. She is their speaker, after all.

Rather than worry what tomorrow might bring, Tannabok throws his all into preparing a party befitting divinity. Thank gods for Miya. Without his wife he could have never thrown together half as suitable in so little time. There are cakes to bake, entertainers to draft, and a square to ready.

Despite the chaos Tannabok still has half an ear open to the gossip emanating down from the temple, because gods forbid the Seal Lords become mortally offended before Manoa can even host anything official in their honor. At least the gods take the edge off their hunger when Chel calls up heaping platters of fish, some explicitly to be served raw. Every last one is scarfed down. For a time the gods deny all visitors as they rest up for the night's festivities. Miya uses the lull to order Tannabok back to bed for a bit, before he collapses from his nerves. It is one command he is always eager to obey.

When night falls the gods grandly swagger down the temple steps. They have cast aside the clothes from their arrival for hip wraps the deep blues and greens of Lake Parime's depths. From their shoulders are tied their second skins. They wear gold in their ears and gold on their arms. For their man shapes their guise is not quite perfect. Their eyes shine with a brightness have. They accept their first libation with webbed fingers and clawed hands.

Once the wine starts flowing even the gods lose their inhibitions and really enjoy the evening. Lord Miguel spins in jigs, feet moving in frenzied patterns even Manoa's best dancers struggle to match, but happily drags half the city into stumbling after him. Sitting a wary distance from the licking flames, the shadows themselves swim before Lord Tulio's hands. He grants them a glimpse beneath the sea, schools of fish darting overhead like birds and grand undersea palaces built in seaweed forests.

Tannabok holds his liquor better than most. He remembers the gods coaxed down to the lakeside. First they dance atop the surface as if it were the glass, like gravity held no domain upon them. Then with barking laughs they slip into their skins and dance on and under the waves, bioluminescence lighting their paths through the deep. The water dances with them, as the globes they bounce and balance off their snouts, the cresting waves that propel them to dizzying heights.

The night officially ends when they stumble back on shore, sloshing a final libation of the wine into Lake Parime and thanking Lady Eupana for their tolerance. Then they swoon into arms that bare them back to their temple.

The following morning Manoa congregates once more in the square, facing both the temple claimed by the Seal Lords and Lake Parime. Chief Tannabok stands tall and certain, his hangover only a distant pounding ache. His people anxiously murmur about the human sacrifices Lady Eupana demands once in a very great age. Her tribute is ritually drowned.

Chel leads the procession down the temple steps, Tzekel-Kan silently seething at her side. It is her words that rouse the gods from their litter, make them receive the attention of their audience.

"This city has been granted a great blessing. We have shown our gratitude through a celebration that will echo through the ages, will do so in every prayer we keep in our hearts and tribute we offer in upon our own home altars." Chel smiles in reassurance. "Such may seem little to us, but not too long ago a single acolyte wept her despair to the waters. Her gods, _our_ gods, found her and lifted her up with new faith and new hope. Today we welcome back Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio, long away and returned to us at last. Such a momentous occasion calls for a true sacrifice, the kind offered in only the most special of circumstances."

The crowd's anxiety dissipates into confusion when Chel turns to the waters and the fishing skiff on a lake smooth as glass. Broad-shouldered fishermen haul the net lashed to the side between them. In it thrashes a massive brown catfish, long as a man. It is no rainbow kingfish, especially sacred to Lady Eupana and her husband Lord Xarayes. The sacrifice is still thrashing when Chel brings her cudgel down and stains the altar red.

The gods grin and happily down the offering, bowls of fresh blood and cuts of raw fish. So do their people, when the fish is cooked and handed out. Miraculously there is enough to fill the bellies in the square.

From that day on the Seal Gods reside in the golden temple most nights. Their days are spent on the water and among the people. Under their watch no one ever drowns, no crocodile or snake ever snatches another man or child by the waterside. Every fisherman returns with a full haul. It is no surprise their worship spreads from Manoa, down the vast river beyond and all the way out to the fishing villages by the coast. The Seal Gods fill their nets, calm their storms, and guide the boats of the faithful to safe harbor.

Those ships of the enemy from across the sea, so common these days, are always dashed upon the rocks and the reefs before they ever reach shore. Those armies that march from overland meet floods, treacherous bogs, and every pestilence big and small that lurks in the water.

Eventually Manoa discovers the Seal Gods are deep divers, bold and fearless, able to delve the deepest depths and reach Xibalba beyond. Those souls that cling to their backs swim past all the Lords of Xibalba, safely carried over Lord Xarayes' vast waters to Lady Eupana's verdant paradise beyond. Those souls stranded on land require a bit more guile to be freed from perdition. How fortunate the Seal Gods are very cunning thieves beneath their skins.

Tannabok is the earthly power in Manoa and calmly sits back as the Seal Gods grow their cult for the better. It comes as now surprise that Lady Chel turns out to have a skin of her own, a family that live in luxury in a grand palace within the mouth of the bay where their river meets the sea.

Not long before this happens, a furious Tzekel-Kan is last seen by mortal eyes down the water's edge, evil in his eyes and from every word growled on his lips. This is the last of him ever seen in Manoa. Only Chima, of all his followers, apparently tries to work up the courage to ask the Seal Gods what became of the old high priest. His courage falters before the eyes of the gods, with pupils dark and fathomless. Without Tzekel-Kan the Jaguar God's cult languishes and all human sacrifice with it. Neither are mourned.

Tannabok's greatest change comes from having to serve fish at his dinner table. Lots and lots of fish. He's never much liked fish. But Lord Miguel drops by for dinner at least once a week, and adores food from the water almost as much as he adores Tannabok's six boisterous boys. They sit on his lap or clustered by his side, enraptured by his tales of encountering a thousand types of spirits over the years and all his long years of making mischief with Lord Tulio before they settled down.

On the night their stories finally delve into Lord Miguel's childhood, Tannabok can't help but especially listen in. The Dual Gods swept in so briefly to raise the Fifth World. The Seal Gods are enigmas with depths deeper than any lake.

"You have _six_ brothers?"

"Yep. On top of four sisters. And..." Lord Miguel takes his fingers and then gives up with a shrug. "Well, _a lot_ of nieces and nephews. I gave up trying to count the generations after."

"Are they all Finfolk?"

"Nope. Not a single one."

"...So they're just seals?"

Lord Miguel's smile strains. "No. None of them were."

Tannabok and Miya exchange a look. Miya rises to shoo their brood off to bed, but the god waves her back down.

"Where are they now? Did you leave them across the sea?"

"...Somewhat."

With a wry grin Lord Miguel redirects the conversation by telling their boys a bit of his own boyhood. His story ends on a light note, chased down from a sea stack by a flock of angry puffins because he was sent up after their eggs. Tannabok's boys laugh, can't quite suppressed their yawns, and are herded off to bed by their mother with a few whines of protest because it's her turn this time.

Tannabok is left alone with the god. "My lord, I can't even begin to-"

Lord Miguel laughs, his smile sad but sincere. "Nonsense, Chief Tanni. Kids will be kids. It's their place to ask questions and learn all they can about the world about them." His eyes flicker to the distant sight of Lake Parime, silver in the moonlight. "It's a beautiful night for a walk. I'd be delighted if you'd join me for a quick jaunt down to the water."

"Of course, my lord."

They walk side by side, mostly in companionable silence. Lord Miguel clutches the sea-green cloak around his shoulders. His sealskin is safe and sound in his temple, beneath the eyes of his partners. Sometimes it is just too cumbersome to carry around. At the water's edge they stop. Lord Miguel, his toes in the water, gazes out to the black void of the tunnel into the river beyond.

"You know, when we grow up we never quite outgrow our curiosity." The god's lips twitch upwards. "It's okay to ask, Chief Tanni. The worst answer you'll get from me is no."

"You have a way with the children that Lord Tulio doesn't," Tannabok points out. "They would never be that presumptuous with him." Not yet, at least. If they can wheedle him into enough story times then their reverence of him will wear off too.

"I grew up in a big family, Chief Tanni. Kids don't scare me. Tulio grew up as an only child the first time around."

"...The first time."

The god shrugs. "Some selkies are just born selkies. Their people already know the sea and the seals, can figure out how to treat them with respect. Some of us... consider the sea a second mother." He hunches into himself. "Not that I'm not thankful. Gods, no. I give thanks to that seal maid every day, that I might know the world below as well as I know the one above. It... It's just... My family didn't go to the water, not like our ancestors used to. They're... Well, in heavens no seal can swim to."

For a moment he looks so forlorn Tannabok can't help but lay a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. His grip remains soothing and sturdy the whole time, even the terrifying seconds where Lord Miguel feels wet and sleek, then cold as the darkest deeps.

Then he is warm and solid again, when his flickering face settles on the one Manoa knows best; golden-haired, dressed in green garb and gold in his ears and on his limbs. The god tenses to shy away, but Tannabok only heaves a patient sigh.

"The sea has quite a lot of children like you and Lord Tulio, huh?"

The god smiles weakly. "We seem to wash up everywhere."

"The biggest families in the pantheon tend to adopt their kids more often than not," Tannabok notes neutrally. "The Moon Goddess adores children. We make sure ours don't wander off. She likes to swoop them off to her silver palace and isn't prone to bringing them back. With her they need never know the pains of the mortal world again."

Lord Miguel's shoulders slacken. "Ah. I see. Her kids have a doting second mother and loads of siblings on top of their first families. How blessed they are, to know all that love."

"Yeah, they certainly are."

Lady Kama is a good mother, if prone to never let her children out of her silver palace down in the spirit world. Down there they need never grow up and leave her, never know death. Not like those parents that stumble across the bodies of their lost children, and truly know them Xibalba's.

Lord Miguel coughs awkwardly. Tannabok squeezes his shoulder once more in affirmation before letting him go. Fond green eyes turn to his temple. "Speaking of being blessed, I believe it's high time I get back to my partners. Have to show them proper appreciation, you know?"

"Of course," Tannabok chuckles. "They need it most of all."

Long after the god grins and slips off into the night, Tannabok lingers by the lake. He fumbles for a cigar if only to give his fingers something to fuss over.

Most often divinity moves in mysterious ways, the hawk that startles a serpent otherwise stepped on or the slant of sunlight that reveals a fresh game trail. They act in a way in mortals can only give thanks to a god's indirect intervention. Manoa is blessed enough to know its Seal Gods by name, to gaze upon their animal forms and the faces beneath the skin. But tonight, purposefully or not, Tannabok glimpsed a third one from Lord Miguel. He puffs his cigar and does his best to process it.

Lord Miguel's hidden face is much like the one he wears in broad daylight. But it is paler, far paler, and those vivid green eyes misted over. His hair and strange clothes float with phantom currents. He is cold - colder than serpents, than wet sealskin, than any living thing.

Lady Kama is a watchful goddess, a merciful mother. Her children are safe and sound for all eternity in her palace. Lost children be lost in so many ways, after all. Sometimes the jaguars leave no bones behind. Sometimes the jungle swallows corpses and the drowned never rise to the surface. But not every child. No. If a child can't be found alive or dead in the world above, why can't be with the Moon Goddess, safe by her side forever and always? Lord Cassipa's daughters frolic in his heavenly halls for all their sacrificed bones rot in his cenote.

However Lady Chel erected her family a palace under the sea, she certainly never drowned to join them there. Tannabok knows that like he knows Manoa will never have anything to fear from their Seal Gods.

Perhaps Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio were born mortal men and died mortal men. But, if so, then only in their first life. In the sea, in their second skins, they were alive and well long before they brought their blessings to Manoa's shores and found third lives here.

As seals are wont to do, they may wander the river and the wide seas beyond. But Manoa is there home. Lady Chel was born upon these shores. She made her consorts feel welcome here. No matter how far they roam, how deep and dark their souls may drift, they are Manoa's. In the hearts of its people they shall live forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The root word for selkie basically boils down to 'grey seal' in Scots. Only larger seals are said to be shapeshifters that can shed their skins. Most selkie stories involve seal maidens getting their seals stolen, because people are assholes. The nice selkies just find their skins and escape back to sea, spouses and children be damned. Killed selkies tend to leave behind curses like, say, causing a shepherd's flock to drop dead or compel to drown themselves off cliffs. Selkies lived under the sea and so presumably breathed seawater. Apparently a lot of folklore implies they are human under the sea. The sealskin is just a way to facilitate passage between two worlds. To a degree they were often conflated with finfolk, a broader type of water fairy.
> 
> Fairies themselves are speculated to be demoted pagan deities or spirits of the dead. Given the age and complexity of the folklore, why not both? Selkies themselves are thought to partially originate from shipwrecked Spaniards that washed ashore with jet black hair... and also from the souls of the drowned. Which made for a nice change of pace here, given that our boys have had wholly supernatural origins in all what-ifs so far.
> 
> Somewhere in the early centuries Miguel's first incarnation drowned somewhere in the Hebrides. In that time everyone was mostly a practicing Christian, but the old religions had a lot stronger influence on folklore and the people, enough for one rather grieving family to find their lost son anew in the sea. Later Germanic invasions helped start Miguel's slow wanderings south, mostly to Celtic areas that shared similarities in culture and language. Eventually he wanders to north Iberia, where traces the Celtiberians lingered even though languages had been mostly subsumed by Latin.
> 
> Spain has little seals these days. Given colder waters of the Little Ice Age and vagrant seals winding up in weird places, seals probably weren't unheard to those north Iberians living on the Atlantic around... 800-900ish. The Mediterranean monk seal is still hanging on, though much reduced from its ancestral range. The cousin that inhabited the Caribbean unfortunately died out in the 1960s from over-fishing.


	22. live again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel has stubbornness issues. Sure, resurrecting people might have skipped a generation, but he still has to try.
> 
> Or how one wrong turn inspires an ex-god to spit in the face of death. Fortunately his partners are there to back him up. 
> 
> Eventually.

Manoa is a marvel of crystal blue canals and wide, even streets.

Wide, _empty_ streets.

Miguel frowns, his excitement increasingly tempered by prickling suspicion. He almost turns for where the city heart must be to investigate further. Instead his gaze finds another street that veers away from where he has already tread. A faint whisper of instinct guides him onward.

The further he walks, the more uneven the streets, the humbler the homes. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpses people peaking from behind walls and doorways. They shrink back and duck away whenever he turns to smile upon them. Such terror turns even his brightest grin rigid. He has not been so feared since the last years he bore his old name and face, when the majority had come to consider him a false god at best and a demon at worst.

On Miguel walks, past the poor of the city to its very edge, an empty clearing stained in ash and seemingly without purpose. There he stops in horror. Here are the burning grounds, with a pyre freshly built. A little girl watches him with wide eyes. Her father's are even wider, when a sacrificial knife slips from his numbed fingers. The hairless little dog beneath his other hand is too drugged to care.

Miguel freezes. The alternative is to sneer and draw away. His revulsion to death is bone-deep, deeper, as one who once counted himself among the deathless gods. This is a family beyond his help and absolutely none of his business.

Another part of him, older and quieter, whispers this was not always so. There was a land where gods could die and rise again. Such was a hope passed down to their people.

Miguel searches the father's face and finds only utter despair, burning humiliation that alleged divinity has stumbled upon him in so vulnerable a time. The impossible hope burning in his daughter's eyes hurts even more so. But it is that impossibility that lures Miguel in.

"Hi," blurts out the girl.

"Hello," Miguel whispers, as if the still little form atop the pyre is only sleeping. Words fail him after that.

"I'm Canah," she volunteers instead. "And that's Daddy."

"My name's Miguel."

"That's Mochi." Canah nods sadly down at the imminent sacrifice. "Cera and I share him, but Daddy says Cera needs him more right now, so we have to send him down to Xibalba too."

A guide, perhaps, through the perils of the underworld or an eternal companion. Or another soul to offer up to the hungry demons that preyed upon the vulnerable in lieu of a little girl's.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "So, so sorry."

Once he could haul back the dying from the brink of death, never past it. Calling down disease and healing it in turn had been his domain, never resurrection from a state most regarded as an absolute. Maybe, just maybe, Miguel could have pulled off a miracle last night. If that first tentative wave of faith had been enough. If the girl had not perished earlier in the day, before he and Tulio had even stumbled into Manoa's secret paradise.

"Lord Tzinacon took her." Canah's eyes guilelessly peer up at him. "Can you bring her back, Lord Miguel?"

"Canah," her father croaks in horror. "M-My lord, please, she is a just a little girl, and-"

Miguel strides past them both. His nostrils flare at the lingering stench of sickness and ever-present death, smothered but still alive beneath a wave of heavy incense, still burning away. Carefully he folds back the shroud. Cera's face is Canah's, though withered by a long fight against a chest infection and newly waxen. His fists clench at the unfairness of it all.

He is not his son, whose healing arts had far surpassed his own, who had raised the dead with ease until stricken down for such gross twisting of the natural order. The same son who had later risen as a deathless god himself. He is not his mother, who relentlessly scoured the world for every last portion of her dismembered husband, to once more make him whole and breathe new life into him.

Apparently such power skipped his generation.

Miguel leans over the pyre and starts to chant anyway. He starts with the spell of the opening of the mouth ceremony. Once priests had symbolically revived embalmed corpses, so that their spirits might regain their voices and use of their bodies in the afterlife, to better protect themselves in the trials for paradise. The least he can do is see Cera's soul to peaceful rest.

But Miguel is so, so tired of doing his _least._ He's scraped by a thousand years on dumb luck and settling for the easy way out every time. Now he is once more in a land that hails him as god, where Canah gazes up at him in unwavering faith.

So he twists his words into something old and something new, Greek and Egyptian, snatches of what his family once used and his own desperate improvisations.

His power wakes and uncoils wave by wave. Mochi revives from his comatose state to whine anxiously at the pyre's base. Across the city Miguel feels a hundred souls rise from their sickbeds, cast off coughs and infections like bad dreams. Beneath him the early stages of composition are beaten back, as stiffened limbs become supple. Even Lord Tzinacon's stranglehold is pried off finger by finger. Fullness returns to her cheeks and the gaping damage wrought upon her lungs weaves itself whole.

But, even fully restored, a body is still a body.

So Miguel gently tips Cera's head back, musters up all the breath in his being, and _exhales_ raw vitality into her open mouth.

* * *

Tulio is just truly sinking into utter bliss with Chel when old ghosts start waking up. He unconsciously rolls away from her, frowning in utter bewilderment at the strange voices and rumors bubbling up in the back of his mind. Because apparently Manoa believes. Really, truly _believes._

All because Miguel is hellbent on twisting the natural order. Again.

"Oh," he mumbles, in deepening dread.

 _"Oh?"_ Chel prompts, arching an unimpressed brow. "Because that was the best-"

"Oh, no." He rolls out of bed, uncaring of his rumpled clothing, as he starts frantically scanning his surroundings. "No, no, no. That utter fucking _idiot."_

Chel rises too, understandably torn between confusion and rage. But Tulio has bigger problems on his plate of the traumatized soul variety.

"Ba," he calls, for lack of a better word. "Look out for the ba!"

"...What?"

Chel's deadpan disbelief lasts a heartbeat before something small and bright white manifests in the air between them. Tulio snatches after it. His fingers just brush feathers as it buzzes out of his grip. The ensuing chase around the temple leads to overturned tables and idols, because he is very out of practice and the ba very unfamiliar with what the hell is happening.

In the end the ba smacks into Chel, trying to hide in her hair. Tulio grinds to a halt before he can bowl them both over. Instinctively Chel holds out a hand. This time the soul doesn't shy away. It trembles in her hands, even when she clutches it protectively to her chest, shaped like a little snow-white hummingbird.

"Is... Is that..."

"Yeah," he croaks out.

A child's soul, young and innocent as they come. Vulnerable to all things wicked in the underworld and things twice as foul that lurked in the world above. His fingers twitch to take the soul into his own protection, to see it to a paradise well-deserved. Tulio's heart aches when the bird only presses further against Chel when he tries to approach. He's an outsider here, unwelcome as the jackal prowling at the cemetery. At least the soul rightly recognizes Chel as someone to look out for them.

The hummingbird whispers something too soft to make out. Chel carefully holds them up to her ear. Her eyes bulge.

_"Miguel?"_

"Miguel," he confirms gravely.

No one else had the power and senselessness to call a soul back from the underworld, to make visible to the living plane.

Chel opens her mouth for the inevitable bombardment of questions. The trembling soul makes her reconsider her priorities. "Fine," she sighs. "Fine. Where do we go from here?"

"Your afterlife has somewhere pleasant, right? Where kids would enjoy a nice, peaceful eternity."

"...Yes?"

"Then that's where we're going. And by 'we' I mean me and the bird."

"Cera," Chel intones. "Her name is Cera."

Tulio inhales and reaches for calm. It's harder as the pressure ramps up in the back of his head. Whatever time limit they're under, there's not much left.

"Cera and I have to go alone, Chel. For obvious reasons."

Chel murmurs to the hummingbird again. Her face solidifies even further, into a defiance Tulio knows well. Good gods why does he have such a weakness for strong personalities?

"I'm going too."

Tulio runs a hand through his frazzled hair and takes the easiest path. "Sure. I'll just carry you the whole way there. And you can carry Cera. So long as _you_ don't touch the ground, or eat anything, or just.... linger, we should all be good. Theoretically."

Her eyes glint in a way he _really_ doesn't trust. "You need to know the way. And I know it."

"We _really_ don't have the time to stumble blindly around Xibalba."

Chel's shoulders steel as she surveys the soul in her hold. "Yeah. We don't. Which is why you're going to follow my directions, no matter what."

"No matter what," he agrees.

Only then does she clamber into his arms, clutching the soul to her heart. Tulio breezes down the steps with inhuman speed, because his idiot partner has at least shown their boundaries are a little more flexible. The pressure in his head builds up to blinding intensity. Chel's imperious directions are the only thing to cut through the pain. He follows without question.

Tulio is left gasping for breath on the mortal plane, with Miguel murmuring over a funeral pyre and Chel clutching the little girl's soul. His ears near bleed from the bastardized opening of the mouth spell tumbling from Miguel's lips. His arms tighten protectively around Chel. She only elbows her way out and strides over.

"Oh," he blurts out, as he realizes what is happening here. _"Oh."_

Miguel hasn't fucked up a spell to see a spell into salvation. He's fucked up a very different spell.

Fortunately for him, one of them actually _is_ a god of both the dead and magic. Tulio frantically starts chanting corrections, mending imperfections line by line.  Mortal little girls have delicate tissue and nervous systems to consider, unlike the last god Tulio helped resurrect. He settles behind the girl's head, hands reweaving the delicate strands in her brain burned out by oxygen deprivation. Miguel pauses for a heartbeat and follows along, strengthening spell into song. There. Now the kid won't be a shambling wreck from severe brain damage if they pull this off.

Together they make body and mind, a whole vessel to be filled once more. Once their teamwork might have pulled off a miracle of such magnitude. But not in Manoa. Here Ancient Greek and Egyptian are beyond dead, for they were tongues never spoken at all. And they are utter strangers to the soul who must trust them implicitly.

Chel listens to the rhythm of their spell. At last she lends her voice to theirs, Manoan and utterly certain as she positions herself over the heart. Theirs is a trinity of tongues, mind and body and soul. In her gentle hands Cera trustingly surrenders to what come next. The physical form of her soul dissolves and sinks into her waiting body.

As one the three of them inhale.

And exhale.

As their breath dies down the little girl beneath them shudders and chokes. Three pairs of hands hold her upright as she hacks out the last of her ailment.

Understandably overwhelmed with one very stressful day, Cera's first full breaths are spent bawling. Her saviors swiftly retreat as her family swarm her. Her dad winds up cradling both his girls, and the dog trying to lick one to death again, in a sobbing, exuberant heap.

"Wow," Chel mumbles, tears shamelessly flowing down her own face as she clings to them both. "Did you just..."

"Yeah, _we_ did," Tulio whispers back, squeezing her and Miguel tightly. "Nice work, partner."

"I... I..."

"Miguel?"

Their partner flinches away. "...Yes?"

"Let's... Let's not make this a habit."

The idiot manages a shaky smile. "Please, Tulio. I'll never let things get this far again."

Tulio groans in fond exasperation as their plans for leaving fly right out the window. Under Miguel's vigilance everyone in Manoa shall have long, healthy lives ahead of them. At least that leaves Tulio the easy job of escorting content old-timers down to paradise. That means no more babies or children to comfort through the unthinkable, no more adults trying to rant his ear off or try to run away the whole journey down.

"Will you do the same for me then?" Chel teases.

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Sweetheart, you just publicly helped raise the dead. 'Mortal' no longer applies anymore."

"...What?"

Her partners grin.

* * *

The dawning of a new age demands sacrifice.

So it had been said, until the Dual Gods vehemently denied a human sacrifice offered to them by Tzekel-Kan, priest of the hungry Jaguar God. That very day they and Lady Chel showed the full force of their disapproval, and the full magnitude of their mercy, by raising a child from the dead. The very night before Lord Tzinacon had stolen her away. The Golden Gods restored her to life, returning a Child of the Vine to creation rather than take one as tribute.

Today, child, we remember that little girl as Lady Cera. Yes, the same great priestess alongside her sister, Lady Canah, that helped saw their cult and holidays formally established. Theirs is the first and only age so far to have begun with a life restored, rather than a life taken.

And we still live in that age today. With Lord Miguel to counteract the Lords of Xibalba, Lady Death almost always comes for us when we've lived long, hardy lives. When that time comes, Lord Tulio shall see us safely down to Lady Eupana's paradise. They are the Lords of Life for good reason, for they watch over us in their lives in this world and the next.

Of course, there is no forgetting Lady Chel either. She is our Lady of Souls, who knows the depths of our heart like no other divinity, for she was once mortal herself. She understands our wants and our hates, our faults and our failures. She is sympathetic to our plights, and merciful to all.

Eventually. Legend says every ant squished by accident is Tzekel-Kan earning one more step in his penance. Perhaps he only has a hundred or so lifetimes yet to make up for.

....Child, what _about_ Lord Altivo? He and Lord Ayau have their own temple and their own stories, even if they aren't much for talking to us directly. You know their wind, and their rainbows, and every heavenly message sent on their behalf.

But Lord Miguel and Lord Tulio love to talk about themselves. I can give you a new story of theirs every night until you're _my_ age.

...You think _I'm_ old? Pah! Don't let your great-grandmother hear that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dual to historical syncretism Miguel can both claim to be the son of Isis, who resurrected the murdered and dismembered Osiris to conceive him, and father of Asclepius, the mortal so good at raising people from the dead Zeus killed him for it. That obviously didn't stick :p
> 
> Apollo never resurrects people in myth but Horus does have a handy habit of bringing himself back from the dead, what with being absorbed into the solar god cult and all. 
> 
> Egyptians had a very physical view of the soul of afterlife. The opening of the mouth ceremony is supposed to symbolically restore functions of the body in the afterlife, so the soul can move again and argue their case in the trial over the Weighing of the Heart. Miguel just took things Up to Eleven. The ba was a part of the soul that at least represented the personality or the person's whole being. It's often depicted as a human-headed bird. Like some Mesoamerican traditions in canon, Manoa has a tradition of their own souls visiting the living as either hummingbirds or butterflies.
> 
> Also due to syncretism, Tulio is both Anubis AND Thoth 'cause both were affiliated to different parts of Hermes/Mercury. Thoth is a god of magic and Anubis a god of souls and the dead. He's also an accomplice in Osiris' resurrection and in the rituals that apparently turned pharaohs into posthumous gods, what their spirits being liberated from their bodies to be able to feed on the offerings left in adjacent temples.


	23. life cycles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Syncretism and a near-death experience leave some lasting side effects.
> 
> Or in which Miguel rises and sets with the sun on a more literal level than his partner would like.
> 
> ...Until crossing into yet another pantheon throws everything haywire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Egyptians had like a dozen faces for the sun god. By Greek reckoning, Apollo kinda is that sun god.
> 
> And so...

"-up! Please _wake up!"_

He snorts blearily awake. "Hmph?"

It's the dead of night. He knows that much. He shouldn't be rising for _hours._ He's cold and creaky when he should be bright from warmth. It takes momentous effort just to open his eyes and slowly turn in his partner's direction. He doesn't even try sitting up.

His partner sags toward him instead. "Oh, _thank gods._ I-I thought..."

His partner, who can no longer quite be called Mercury, reaches down to take his hand to place one his reverential kisses upon the palm. At the last moment his partner jerks his hand back instead, not quite able to hide his grimace. Personally he's too damn tired to feel offended.

In faint curiosity he ponderously raises his own hand instead. Bony fingers twitch. "Huh."

"Y-You're... taking this oddly well."

"I mean, it's not like _this_ is anything new. I'm just usually down in the Duat when it happens." His muddied mind considers that. "Well, some part of me is down there at least. Or some other part of the underworld. You know what I mean."

"...Not really an option anymore, partner."

Blearily he remembers the forbidden flesh that went past his lips, the roasted ram he eagerly tore into. It has given them solid forms in this world for all the sacrifice severed them from what was left of their divinity. Unfortunately his body hasn't quite gotten the message yet. Being near-mortal means being near-dead is still a valid option.

"Oh well."

_"Oh well?"_

He tilts his head back and gets as cozy as he can like this. "It's only for a few more hours. So please shut up and let me sleep."

His partner does not in fact let him sleep. Every time he's on the verge of drifting off some loud, pointed question from his partner jerks him back awake. As awake as he can be with his solar body so deep beyond the horizon. But his grumpy mumbles assure his partner like nothing else can. It's not like he snores like this. Breathing is optional when one is not yet alive enough to need air anyway.

Eventually the oblivion that eclipses so much of his mind subsides. In the pre-dawn his partner finally sighs and lets him drift off. Right when he falls asleep the first sliver of sun past the horizon snorts him awake. He grunts in confused, bleary pleasure when his partner chooses to smother him in kisses right when breathing becomes mandatory again.

"All right, all right," he huffs through the kisses, at last finding the strength to push his partner off and sit himself up. "I'm awake."

"You're _alive."_

Bemused emerald eyes flick down to supple arms. He runs nimble fingers through thick, golden hair. His stomach growls for breakfast because hunger is a thing now. "What else would I be?"

"...The opposite?"

He snorts. "Only nearly so. Not unless you let something eat me at my most vulnerable."

His partner gapes. "Is-Is this gonna be a-a... _thing_ from now on?"

"Well, it's been a thing for a very long time," he retorts. "I just don't have a barge or a chariot or whatever to carry me through the worst of it anymore."

"You never needed that before! Not in Iberia!"

"Iberia doesn't have room for us anymore, remember?" He smiles humorlessly. "And the one God they do still keep certainly set a precedent for death and resurrection."

For several days they linger warily in the wilderness to confirm, yes, his nocturnal condition is a thing every night. His partner stubbornly believes it a curse abandoned with the last of their old identities. So he cuts off most of his unshorn hair and lets golden stubble spread across his beardless face, to efface the last vestiges Apollo from it. In turn his partner grows his hair out and settles on black stubble over a full beard. They introduce themselves to the closest town as Miguel and Tullius, two mundane con men. Really.

It's a good day. A very good day. They lie and cheat themselves into a decent haul. Well, mostly Tullius does. Miguel has a lot to learn from him.

In the later afternoon, when fatigue starts to eat the edges of his mind, Miguel can't blame it entirely on his new physical form. Neither can Tullius, for all his stubborn optimism. Paranoia has them racing the sun out of town. What happens after dusk confirms Miguel's old life has followed him into the new. At least this time Tullius lets him sleep it off.

They learn to work their way around it. Miguel takes to wearing a cloak even on the hottest summer days. It hides his face so he can hobble along after dark if needed. Mostly they just hunker down in inns or lofts or groves come sundown. Miguel gets clever with his seductions. The cover of night isn't much of an option anymore.

Most of the time it works. They only spark hysteria in a few towns that catch sight of a 'ghoul' or 'demon.' Miguel is very lightweight at night, light enough for Tulio to scoop him up and fly like he still had wings to escape those torches and pitchforks. Come dawn Miguel is fresh-faced and beaming again. In the light of day people forget their fear and stop looking for monsters in human faces.

They've adapted to new peoples and pantheons, have changed their names and whole domains. After centuries, Miguel's 'curse' simply becomes a fact of life. They con by day and cower away by night.

Then comes the map. And the bull. And being stranded in a pickle barrel.

Once the ship starts moving beneath them, bobbing up and down with the waves, Miguel stops struggling. There's nowhere left to go except the brig. Instead he at least helps himself to some pickles.

Tulio's fervent, whispered swears die out as Miguel's strength starts to set with the sun. Once Tulio was a god of cycles. He knows the courses of the day almost better than Miguel himself.

"Miguel?" he whispers instead.

"Hm?" his partner mumbles, slumping wearily against his briny prison.

"I... I'm..."

"Tulio?"

"...Yeah?"

"I'll see you in the morning."

"I... Good night, Miguel."

It's a good night, all things considered. No sailors suddenly get a hankering for pickles. Miguel's fears of discovery wither and die with him. His sleep is sound and dreamless, even more so than usual. The rocking of the ship is lulling and familiar. It's almost like being aboard his night barque again, though without the chaos of the Duat and Apophis' hungry mouth to worry about.

At sunrise Miguel wrinkles his nose against the overwhelming saltiness as his sense of smell returns in full force. What was once his comfy little coffin is now stifling once his muscles awake enough to ache.

"Miguel? You didn't brine in there, did you?"

He gags at the horrible smell. "I never want pickles again. Can we go to the brig now?"

"On three?"

"Good. Good. Excellent! Anywhere that's doesn't smell like _death and pickles!"_

Cortes is courteous enough to throw them in the bring under promise of flogging in Cuba. Cuba is nice. Cuba is solid ground. And free of sharks. Miguel really doesn't wanna find out what would happen the sunrise after they get tossed overboard to be drowned and devoured by the ruthless creatures below.

Miguel handles imprisonment easier. At night he hunkers down in his cloak and sleeps away half his time. Tulio is left conscious to worry about the possibility of sailors realizing one of their prisoners is a living corpse every night. Escape is good. Escape before they are clapped in chains and shackled where no shadows can hide is _very good._

Fate grants them an apple and an old horse god willing to bargain. Fate also gets them stranded in a dinghy with said horse. At least poor Altivo doesn't mind his companions too much. His ears and nose has made him aware of the situation for weeks, the most observant soul on the ship. The first night he snorts in disgust, pointedly looks away at the night takes its toll, but of course says nothing. Their close quarters soon inoculates the old boy to any oddness at all.

Thirst and hunger are always terrible to awake to. Tulio and Altivo have to suffer them at all hours as their supplies dwindle. Sunrise always grants Miguel some vitality, however small a boost, with life restored. His partner and the stallion are not so fortunate.

Right when Miguel is fearing things too terrible to contemplate, their boat washes up on verdant shores and, more tellingly, the start of their trail.

It's adventure. It's freedom.

It's a chance to live again. Really, truly _live._

* * *

Miraculously spared, no way is Chel wasting her second chance so easily. She's running like hell for the back entrance, so her speed doesn't shame the Dual Gods, and returning their idol. Then she's lying low somewhere until the heat dies down. Maybe she'll try to repay the Dual Gods for their generosity. Maybe she'll just try to run away again before Tzekel-Kan can think to offer her up as sacrifice. Everything hinges on first undoing her theft.

Of course, that plan hinges on the gods taking the slow and grand way up the temple steps, in basking before their crowd. They're immortal deities with all the time in the world. Surely they won't want to enjoy their new home until she's come and gone.

Chel hurries as fast as she can, sprints up the steps. She's gasping for breath at the top.

And still not fast enough. She ducks out of sight as the voices of the gods, of Chief Tannabok and Tzekel-Kan, filter through the chambers. The high priest proposes a 'reverent ceremony' at dawn that will cost at least one poor soul their life and the high priest a glorious feast for that very night so the city can at least drink away their dread.

The gods pause.

"Why not reschedule that dawn ceremony for radiant noon? Much more auspicious. What say you, Lord Tulio?"

"Quite right, Lord Miguel. And why not have that feast right after, so the day is even more glorious?"

"Both is good!"

Chief Tannabok is graceful enough to accept the gods at face value. Tzekel-Kan tries pressing them for more details, if only so that he might sabotage the chief's chance of stealing the tomorrow. But the gods that hastened their way up to their temple talk over the priest and shoo him from their presence just the same. A thousand years anticipated for their arrival and already desperate for privacy.

Or maybe not even the Dual Gods have the patience to tolerate Tzekel-Kan in more than small doses.

"Jeez," Lord Tulio huffs moments later. "I thought that creep would never leave." Hah! Called it! Chel's brief thrill ends with the god's hesitant pause. "Hey, Miguel, are you still..."

"Yes," answers the other.

Chel freezes, chilled by more than the lengthening shadows. She remembers the bombastic, golden-haired god from not even an hour ago. Now his voice sounds weak and strained.

"Oh, _great,_ " groans Lord Tulio. "These people better have that position already filled or at least be less literal with their belief systems."

"Tulio," Lord Miguel sighs. He takes a breath for his argument, and grunts painfully instead.

Horror almost roots Chel the spot or makes her drop the idol and flee. Instead her feet drag her stubbornly onward. Her grandma always said it's rude to lurk in doorways. That's not even including the blasphemy of doing it to divinity.

She keeps her gaze piously fixed to the floor. The white bulk that prances its way in front of her snorts imperiously. Chel glances up into Lord Altivo's stoic face before she drops into a bow, thrusting her tribute up.

"My lords, I am returning your tribute to its rightful place. My only wish is to serve-"

**_"Leave,"_** thunders a voice deep and merciless. As the last of the sun dies Lord Tulio's shadow looms large, swallowing the whole throne room.

_"Tulio!"_

It is little more than a thin, brittle rasp. Lord Tulio stills at the sound. He uncertainly glances back even as he takes a protective step forward, as if Chel is somehow a threat to the god hidden behind him. The shadows around Lord Tulio recede but only shroud the golden thrones thicker.

"Miguel, she-"

"-Is ours. We've already claimed her."

"She still doesn't need to-"

"Yes."

The god groans. "Doesn't that defeat the point of-"

"I've hid this face a thousand years. Let her decide what her people deserve of us, if anything at all."

Lord Altivo nickers his assent and moves aside. But Chel doesn't even so much as breathe until Lord Tulio's shoulders slump in defeat. He inches from her path. His hand never strays from the golden sword at his side.

Chel pads forward. Her grandma's words about always minding her manners before divinity echo in her ears. She inhales deeply at the god sitting in his throne, enveloped in the cloak he wore only loosely in broad daylight. The bony hand that reaches for the hood gives her some warning before all is revealed.

His visage is dry and desiccated, skin like taut leather, like nothing that should be able to speak and move of its own. Still the handsome, youthful god from earlier is not entirely gone. His graceful lines are still visible, his golden hair dull and brittle wisps clinging to his skull. A smell lingers around him, somewhere between death and the old, dusty books that molder in the ancient libraries of the great temples. Only his eyes are the same, though pained and weary, set deep into dark hollows.

Lord Kinich must look much the same, when he dies every night to be reborn with the dawning. So Chel bows deeply to Lord Miguel with the same respect he deserved when she first stumbled across him and Lord Tulio upon their herald.

"My only wish is to serve the gods, my lords, no matter your forms."

"Please," he wheezes. "What may I call you?"

Chel evenly returns the idol's head to is proper place. "Chel, my lord."

She might call his expression a wry grin, if his face wasn't rigidly fixed like that. "Then I am called... the Finished One."

"Miguel," groans Lord Tulio. "That-That's not even-"

"It is," the other god breaks in. "And he can tell you why."

"It's not _your_ story! That fuck-up belongs to-"

"Me, Tulio. It's all me."

"But you were-"

"And for that I am me in the horizons."

"You-"

"Tell. Her."

"Fine." Lord Tulio falls into the other throne, running agitated fingers through his hair. "Once upon a great god created the whole wide world. He separated the earth and sky, but the sky was still destined to have children. The god was furious the sky's children would one day replace him, so he decreed she would never be able to give birth, not on any day of the year. Fortunately the moon god I knew was a gambling addict, so-"

_"Tulio."_

"So I make five extra days so the next generation of gods can come into the world. But the great god still refuses to abandon the world he created, even as all the other gods leave for the heavens. He stays down here long enough to grow old. Old enough for mortals to mock. He... He grows senile, even. Or at least spiteful enough to tear out his eye and command her to destroy all who conspired against him. So then we had to get that goddess _super_ drunk so she wouldn't kill all humanity. And..."

And that god still refuses to leave. Not until a crafty goddess, one born of the sky, creates a snake whose venom is enough to drive even him to the brink of death. By the time she at least coerces him back to the heavens, to shine there as he must, the damage has already been done.

"Ah," Chel says. "That's... something."

No wonder history just remembers the Dual Gods making the Fifth World and fucking off to parts unknown. Turns out at least one of them had been a raging asshole back in the day. Lord Kinich and Lady Kama had been two benevolent Suns, until the Crocodile God's envy had killed one and mutilated the other. That is why Lady Kama now hides away as the Moon Goddess, and Lord Kinich must still die every night despite the Hero God's effort in saving him from Xibalba.

But Lord Tulio doesn't stop there. He tells tales of a healer that eradicated whole plagues and slayed great monsters. He tells of an annoying older kid he liked to steal from and the pranks they played together on the other gods. He speaks of an averter of evil and a hero god who warred against his own power hungry uncle to avenge his father and preserve creation.

First Lord Miguel attempts to protest. His partner politely plows right through them. In the end the Finished One winds up dozing off much like the weary old man he kinda is beneath the decay and despair. Except for when he wheezes awake to rasp contributions to Tulio's tales, like how he'd _really_ liked those sacred cows or how his uncle had totally deserved that 'surprise' in his lettuce. At this one Lord Altivo finally rolls his eyes and dramatically trots off. None pay him much mind.

Chel is enthralled. Sleep is the furthest thing from her mind when she plops down on the cold stone floor to listen to two impossible, paradoxical lives. Eventually Tulio winds up rolling his eyes and surrendering his seat to her. He slides into the other throne. His partner stirs from his slumber to cling to him. Tulio absently strokes at his wispy hair as he reminisces about the golden, unbound waterfall Miguel had back in the day.

As the sky begins to gray, Tulio trails off. His eyes shine.

"Wait for it," he murmurs.

Chel holds her breath. Together they watch that dead, shriveled form tremble.

And crumble into dust.

Her nails sink into her palm, hard enough to bleed. Tulio freezes in horrified disbelief, breaking into-

The mound of dust trembles. An emerald green beetle _(scarab)_ crawls its way out, shaking its wings free of debris.

"...What."

The scarab buzzes in happy circles around them before alighting atop Tulio's head. He goes cross-eyed as he tries to scowl up at it.

"Miguel, what did you _do?"_

The scarab rubs his forelegs together rather smugly. This is how Chel meets Lord Miguel, called He Who is Coming Into Being. She soon finds herself grinning like an idiot at the sight of a god arguing with a bug about how this better not be a Thing, on top of all the other Things the day promises to bring.

Her grin falters as she considers these idiots, about as physically far from the bloodthirsty harbingers Tzekel-Kan's zealous preaching built up as one can get.

"You guys don't eat people, do you?"

_"No!"_ Tulio splutters, as Miguel buzzes around him. "W-Where did you even..." His face twists. "Tzekel-Kan."

Chel rises smoothly from her borrowed throne. "Don't worry, I've got this. He isn't even worth your time."

The sun has fully breached the horizon by the time she reaches the outskirts of the city. Despite the early hour Tzekel-Kan's warriors have already begun to drag the poor from their homes, so that the high priest might select a suitable sacrifice from their number.

"Stop that."

All the warriors instinctively freeze out of the same reflex drilled into them by their mothers and grandmothers. None that ever quite mastered her grandma's stern, unquestioning tone. Today Chel does her proud.

Some of the men that turn to face her sneer as they recognize a thief apprehended. Most bow their heads or at least lower their spears as they further realize she is a priestess chosen by the gods, one staring at them in stern disapproval. She has come dressed for the occasion, in the red and white gown of a high priestess, with the perfect gold earrings Tulio had deftly plucked from thin air.

"Stop that right now," she repeats, forcing her way between a warrior and a man little more than a boy. It is the grown warrior who shrinks back from her. "This does not please the gods."

"We are readying the potential sacrifices, my lady," Chima, Tzekel-Kan's head stooge, answers dutifully. "As you ordered."

"I ordered no such thing because the gods do not wish this. My only wish is to serve _them._ Take me to your priest."

Tzekel-Kan scarcely bites back his sneer at the sight of her. Instead he plasters on his most irritating, condescending smile as he simpers he simply must do what is best for the gods. She is only a brand new priestess so far out of her depths. Of course two great stags are unbecoming of divinity. But he knows best, and what is best for the gods is their first human life of countless.

"If I do not wish it, Tzekel-Kan, _the_ _gods_ do not wish it. I am their chosen priestess. This sacrifice is my domain, and you intrude upon it."

The man's sneering response is cut off by a flash of gold from the rooftops. Tzekel-Kan's smug smirk quickly falters into uncertainty. Chel smiles serenely.

Watching from above is Lord Miguel, now called the Great Cat. His coat is tawny coat spotted in solid black. He is no jaguar. Like this he barely comes up to Chel's knee. That does not stop this graceful form from being the same he used to slay great gods of chaos. Green eyes lock with Tzekel-Kan as his tail lashes ominously. It is warning enough to make the high priest swallow his pride and defer to Chel's wishes.

At auspicious noon Lord Miguel soars approvingly overhead as Chel drives her knife down into the throat of the first stag. Tulio accepts the first chalice of blood. He holds it up for his partner, the emerald hawk called Lord of the Sky, to eagerly imbibe. In turn Miguel becomes a hawk-headed man, so that he might now be the one to hold the next libation to his partner's lips.

The ensuing celebration begins with the feast, for somehow two stags provide enough to feed the whole city. Some murmur about Miguel's uncanny similarities to Lord Kinich in this form. The whispers die out as the party winds down. Late afternoon brings yet another change. While Miguel's human half remains the same his head seamlessly shifts from hawk into what Chel now knows to be a horned ram's. This is how Manoa meets Lord Miguel, Divine Potter.

As the sun sets, Chel feels no fear whatsoever. Manoa has embraced their gods in human form, one now as bug and bird, cat and ram. Even a form more befitting a Lord of Xibalba will not upset them now, not from gods who pointedly chose animal sacrifices over a human life. Besides, most are too drunk at this point to care much either way.

"Time for another change?" Chel jokes, as Miguel nonchalantly pulls off the kid from his shoulders that was using his horns for handle bars.

The god grins, as a wave of coiling power makes even her draw back on instinct. "Time to shed another skin."

As the sun dies his human skin dries and flakes as his horns wither and fur falls out. Chel just catches his pupils narrow into slits. That's all the warning she gets before the square loses the Ram God for one titanic serpent with scales the deep blue-black of the night sky. He winks at her before reintroducing himself as Lord Miguel, the Complete One.

His people barely bat an eye. Kids continue begging rides. Now he can accommodate far more passengers, glides out into Lake Parime with squealing, giddy riders on his back. Lord Altivo simmers in jealousy.

Lord Tulio shakes his head in bemusement after his partner rounds their part of the shore again. "Syncretism," he mutters like a curse word, downing another cup of wine.

Chel considers the primordial serpent vast enough to smother the Jaguar God in his coils. "He's still Miguel."

"Yeah," he acknowledges, grinning after his partner. "Different face, same lovable idiot."

With no pressing business tomorrow, the party rages long into the night. Among the adults young or savvy enough to hold their liquor, at least. Chel purposefully doesn't drink much at all. She's one of the few wide awake when the sky starts to lighten.

Miguel snorts awake from under a pile of people. He gently slithers his way out from them. His whole form slips beneath the lake's dark surface.

For a moment the world holds its breath.

Then all of Lake Parime glows gold, like it did when the Dual Gods raised the Fifth World from its waters. Lord Miguel emerges. His long, graceful legs stride across the water with nary a ripple. His plumage ranges from the soft blue-grays of dawn to pure, shining white. He is a heron tall enough to stare down a man. He is so much more. Chel's eyes water shamelessly, as she beholds the purest form of divinity an eye might ever fall upon.

When he reaches the lake edge the god opens his beak, as if to call another world into creation. A bare human foot touches the shore as a bearded face grins radiantly at her.

"I am Miguel," he proclaims. "I am He Who Came Into Being By Himself."

His grandiose introduction is promptly ruined by Tulio bowling him over, clinging to him for dear life as they splash back into the water.

"You idiot," Tulio manages between worshipful kisses. "I love you no matter your form, but this. Is. Not. A. Thing."

"Only abstractly," Miguel concedes, with a vague smile. "If I want it to be."

His partner blinks at him, aghast, before turning to Chel. She beholds them both, in all their flaws and their beauty, and lunges her way in too.

There are many Things that can happen today that need not be so abstract. Together they make hearty progress on a few.

Until the sun sets that night. An ibis squawks in confused affront as the crescent moon rises.

"Oh," Miguel sighs. "I forgot how beautiful your feathers were."

Tulio preens only a moment at the compliment, before the indignity sets back in. Chel rolls her eyes in fond exasperation as she learns the best way to wrangle a giant, angry bird off a blustering god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ra-Horus was believed to be dead/dying at night and be reborn with the dawn. Godslave gave us this wonderful version of Ra, (https://www.godslavecomic.com/comic/lectures), who's just basically this fed-up old mummy grandpa stuck on a boat with his bickering grandkids every night. So through some serious crossed wires this Miguel winds up almost as crusty every night, only to freshen up with the sunrise.
> 
> ...Until respinning his stories in a new pantheon hits the cosmic reset button, basically. I just started with AlmostaMummy!Miguel a few weeks ago and went from there.
> 
> In one myth arc, Ra created the world, prevented Nut from having kids, and so Thoth (or Hermes) got the moon god drunk to create some new extra days to make those damn kids. Then Ra grew old, created Sakhmet to sic on humanity, got blackmailed by Isis, and returned to the heavens so Osiris (and then Horus) could eventually take over. This did not stop Greeks and Egyptians from still syncretizing the two.
> 
> Because the Ra cult really got around and Egypt had a lot of primordial creator deities, Ra is Khepri the scarab at dawn, but also the cat god Mau who slays Apophis every morning. So is he Horus at noon and Khenum the ram in the dusk. In the evening he is Atum, who once emerged himself from the primordial waters as a serpent and renews himself every dawning. He is also tied to post existence and thus a theoretical, cyclical return to Nun.
> 
> And Ra is also the self-created Bennu, probably the inspiration of the modern phoenix. It might have been a deified form of the six and a half foot tall Bennu heron, an actual big-ass bird from Oman that died out only during the Middle Kingdom.
> 
> In turn, Hermes-Mercury is also both Anubis and Thoth in the Greco-Roman tradition. And Thoth is all about those cycles. His ibis form is probably from the beak being linked to the shape of the crescent moon, but he is also myriad in shape and function.... Much to Tulio's chagrin. He'll be fine too. Eventually XD Once his being gets used to omnipotence again.


	24. forget the sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't eat humans anymore! Stop trying to force them down my throat!"
> 
> Tzekel-Kan tries cornering his lords a bit earlier that day, and Miguel lets one word too many slip.
> 
> What he was doesn't change who he is now. Or what he is soon to be.

Today has been a good day. Mostly.

Minus the rude awakening to a man drugged and trussed up like an animal sacrifice, like...

No matter. Tulio had stopped Tzekel-Kan in time, prevented him from doing something that could never be undone. Chief Tannabok's generous tribute of gold right after had certainly helped put Miguel and his partner back at ease. The ship to carry all this treasure back to Spain with them is an added bonus, a necessary one. If they stay in this golden city, then they inevitably become tied to a pantheon where the gods consider human blood the highest honor.

That's never happening. Not now, and not ever.

By the time the gold is mostly heaped around their temple - er, temporary accommodations, Miguel's mood has brightened tremendously. This morning feels an unpleasant memory, distant as those three thousand years ago. He's looking forward to exploring Manoa. He only has three days here to make memories to last the long centuries ahead. Every hour is precious.

But for right now, he settles for lounging against the gold, idly listening to Chel and Tulio bicker over the last placements of gold. The cadence of their spirited debate feels... nice. It's one Miguel certainly won't mind hearing on the voyage back to Spain. And maybe even for the first few decades after, if Chel feels adventures by their side to be worth a mortal lifetime.

Tulio suddenly cuts off. Miguel cracks an eye open. His partner's easy posture has tensed back up into rigid dread. It's enough to make Miguel bolt upright from his tribute pile.

"Psycho priest incoming," he warns.

Chel glances wildly around. "H-How did you-"

Miguel groans as he senses it too, a nasty and smug presence intruding up the steps of his closest thing to a home in eons. "He's right, Chel. Get ready for him."

He and Tulio plaster their godly guises back on, imperiously looming from their thrones while Chel dismisses the last of the acolytes loading up their gold. She lingers at the threshold, pretending to dutifully inspect a golden idol until Tzekel-Kan's shadow darkens their door.

"Tzekel-Kan," she greets calmly, one spiritual colleague to another. "What brings you here?"

Miguel bites back a smirk at the silky disdain in her voice or the way Tzekel-Kan bristles at it. _She_ isn't the priest who misread the heavens this morning.

"Lady Chel," he bites out, fully aware of the benefactors watching their exchange. "I-I humbly seek an audience with your lords to... seek enlightenment on how I could have so egregiously misread their divine will, and to offer them respectful compensation for my error."

"If it is the will of the gods to meet with you," Chel offers coolly.

Miguel and Tulio turn to each other. For once greed at a potential second round of tribute takes a distant second.

Through raised eyebrows and purposeful glares, they come to silent agreement. Best nip this matter in the bud, before Tzekel-Kan thinks to spring an even bigger surprise on them.

"We do," Tulio intones at last. He leans forward in that way Dad used to vaguely unsettle deities he didn't like. "What may we do for you, Tzekel-Kan?"

The priest bows deeply before them. "My lords, you are perfect. But in your perfection, you cannot know how imperfect humans are. Even those such as myself, who strive to rise above our base instincts in your service, are prone to error. In my haste to please you through my ceremony I also strove not to offend you. The life of a man of the Vine, a servant of middling age, was a safe offering. An _unworthy_ offering, an inauspicious start for the age to come. Your tastes are obviously more refined than that, and so I must-"

Miguel can't help but groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, not again."

"M-My lord, I-"

"I don't eat humans anymore!" he snarls out. "Stop trying to force them down my throat!"

Too late does Miguel bite his tongue on that one little extra word that slipped out, but the truth is already out there. Tzekel-Kan sinks to the ground in full prostration, a groveling mess from the force of his outburst. Behind him Chel gapes in bewildered horror. Miguel guiltily averts his eyes, only to catch Tulio's aghast stare.

"I-I- Don't look at me like that! Everyone in the family had some form or another of it back in the old days!"

"Um, no." Tulio runs a crazed hand through his hair. "Rustic god, remember? I was getting sheep and goats bled out over my stones from, like, day one."

"Well, lucky you!"

Dead silence follows. Miguel's temper refuses to wind down. Instead it ramps out, as three thousand years of emotional repression are once more hurled to the surface.

"Do you want to know what I was called in the beginning, Tzekel-Kan?" he whispers into that terrible void. "I called down death long before I ever found my bow. Do you want to know what mothers called me, when they spilled the blood of their own sons to beg me to heal what I had called down upon their cities?"

Over the gold, this ill-gotten power, stirs a wind just as foul. It smells of deceased bodies piled up to rot and the smoke of mass pyres. On it he can almost hear the forlorn wails in Luwian and Hittite, Babylonian and Sumerian. They all cry out his name, beg him to pull back his plagues. They offer everything they hold dear, _everything,_ to do it, to stop the bodies from piling up, the crops from withering in their fields. Tzekel-Kan presses even further to the floor, shutting his eyes at the horror he near called down upon his people, upon _himself._ Plagues feed upon the poor and the priests, the young and the old, even kings themselves.

Heedless of it all, his partner rests a steady, unfailing hand upon his shoulder. "Miguel," he intones purposefully. "Enough."

Miguel, called Miguel, inhales through clenched teeth. On his ragged exhale that foul wind dies, sinks back into the ancient past where it belongs. The temple is silent once more.

"Deer."

Miguel and Tulio blink over at Chel. Tzekel-Kan continues staring into nothing.

Chel, their self-proclaimed priestess, their partner, inhales once more. "Deer. A-And tapir. Your altars will run with the blood of beasts tomorrow. Then you'll dine on their flesh, to feed all the hungers gold can't fill on its own. A-And there'll be wine. Lots and lots of wine. _I'll_ see to it all, so there won't be anymore fuck ups. Does _that_ please you?"

Miguel waits for Tulio's graceful acceptance. He swallows thickly when his partner squeezes pointedly his shoulder instead.

"Y-Yeah," he mumbles. "T-That all sounds... perfect. Utterly perfect."

"It does," Tulio chimes in at last. "Thank you, Chel. Really." An expectant pause follows, before dragging on. And on. "...You can go now, Tzekel."

Tzekel-Kan flees as if death itself is at his heels, as if from a city ravaged by pandemic. That never saved anyone in the end, not when that same plague already festered in their loved ones, in themselves. They only carried their grief to another city, so that its ragged survivors might hail a plague god in one more tongue, and make altars run red in his honor.

Chel is not so shaken. She still staggers onto a pile of gold, because it's the closest seat available. And just... lies there.

Tulio stares helplessly after her, then back at Miguel.

He sighs. "I'm fine, Tulio."

"But-"

"It's ancient history. I dealt with it once. I can deal with it again."

After a long pause, Tulio finally deserts his throne to lie beside Chel. She flinches once, but doesn't pull away. Why would she? _Tulio_ isn't the one who once took human lives as the greatest of offerings, who encouraged such by letting his plagues run havoc whenever he grew bored or curious with the next pandemic.

Miguel draws his knees up onto the throne and just huddles there. He certainly can't go anywhere else now, not until it's time to go slinking back to Spain where he belongs.

Purposefully he drowns out the quiet murmurings from his partners so he won't eavesdrop on a private conversation. Obviously Chel isn't going with them anymore. Not that Miguel blames her one bit. Manoa has wide, clean streets and abundant running water. He doubts a single epidemic has ever sprung up here before. It might even be safe from all the sickness and slavers Cortes' ilk bring with them, if they can remain vigilant in their defenses. All they have to tolerate is offering up the spare human life from time to time, to keep the fortunes good and their gods complacent.

"-el? Hello, Miguel? _Earth to Miguel."_

He startles from his sulk, peering up from crossed arms.

"Yes, you. Get over here, you idiot. We owe our partner a hell of an explanation."

Slowly, Miguel rises from his throne and inches over, giving them all the chance to change their mind. When Tulio rolls his eyes he finally settles onto the utter edge of the pile, far from Chel as possible. Then she huffs and rolls over Tulio, closing the distance between them.

"Well?" she prompts.

As their partner, Chel deserves the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So Miguel starts from the beginning. Which is hard, because he's had multiple beginnings over the centuries spread out over multiple civilizations. Admittedly the plague-bringing parts and the parts that accepted human sacrifice are a bit higher on the priority list. Then there's the convergence in Rome between them all, the journey west, the fall of their pantheon, the map. All of it, really. And it just kind of explodes out of him.

Chel progresses from disbelieving, to mesmerized, and then confused. So, so confused. By the end all she can manage is a deadpan stare.

"...What?"

"I-I just told you it all!"

"You... kinda rambled a lot, Miguel," Tulio chimes in. "In Luwian."

"Well-"

Chel groans, rubbing at her temples. "You two are idiots. You have established that well. Inhumanly good-looking, _good-hearted_ idiots. So, how in all the hells did you go from scary, scary elder gods to..." She puts up her hand and mimes the hissing thing from last night, just to make them splutter.

Miguel's brow furrows. How to quantify that broad, gradual shift from human sacrifices, rare and solemn, to proxies of beasts and clay? It is a transition he lived through multiple times, from Greece to Egypt, Rome to the Levant. "Um," he begins.

"Tantalus," Tulio butts in, as if that is the answer to end all answers.

"...Tantalus?"

"Tantalus."

Chel nudges Tulio with an elbow. "And Tantalus is...?"

"Was a brother. To a lot of us, back in the day, because our king god took his _sky-father_ thing way too enthusiastically. And was, er, prone to making it reign. Everywhere. So a lot of these siblings tended to be somewhat mortal. Including Tantalus."

"And?"

"Tantalus was a king. He had feasts so grand even his godly relatives loved to pop in for the parties, including his own divine dad. So Tantalus comes to feel particularly honored but also very, _very_ overwhelmed. How could _he,_ a kinda mortal king, provide the gods such constant entertainment dinner after dinner? How could he up his game, to show them how hospitable a host, how pious a son, he was?" Tulio rolls his eyes. "See where this going?"

Chel frowns. "He... sacrificed himself?"

"If only," Miguel mutters.

"Yeah," Tulio sighs. "He butchered up his gods damned _son._ To serve to the gods. As a surprise."

Chel stammers in horror. "T-To his own _son?"_

"Yep."

She turns to Miguel, gripping at both their arms. "Someone punished him, right?"

Miguel snorts. "Oh, we had a special little corner of the underworld carved out just for him. They make up words in some languages based off that punishment. It's his for all eternity. Filicide and cannibalism are each mortal sins on their own, but to drag divinity into it?"

"Exactly," Tulio surmises. "Pelops was a kid. A kid who was part god, served up to his cousins, his aunts and uncles, his own damned grandfather. And none of us appreciated being near tricked into cannibalism. Not one bit. So that was the end of taking such precious things from the mortals. Forever. We'd make do with tribute not so disturbingly close us."

Miguel frowns curiously at him. "T-That's... not quite how either of those two things actually-"

Tulio rolls his eyes, glances at Chel. "That a good enough explanation for you, partner?"

She looks to them both, then heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah. Good enough."

Tulio smiles at Miguel to declare the problem solved. Until their partner opens a new one.

"You gonna tell that to your relatives over here, too?"

"W-Well, that's-"

Chel arches a brow. "Stars aren't in the position for it?"

Miguel rises from his pile of gold to survey the city, recalling that fateful morning. Only Tzekel-Kan had looked forward to the impending sacrifice. Even Chief Tannabok had only been solemnly resigned. His people had been utterly horrified. Maybe they too are teetering on that precipice between solemn occasion and utter taboo, and ready to drag their gods along with them. Is that why...

Miguel smirks up to clear blue skies, without a star in sight. "Well, _I_ say they might be changing. What about you?"

Chel considers his offered hand. She accepts it with a beautiful grin that will strike terror into the hearts of their enemies. As one they turn to Tulio.

"Are you _serious?"_

"I wanted in to get out," she declares. "And we're getting the whole damned city out. No one else is winding up like my aunts. Or my mom. Or my _brother."_

Tulio splutters helplessly at Miguel. He fearlessly grins right back.

"We're here for a reason, aren't we? I think the people,  _our people,_ are making themselves heard loud and clear."

Their partner smiles in wry surrender, and joins their hands to his. "Like this is our first time turning a pantheon upside down."

It's not.

But it is the last. In the hearts of Chel and all Manoa they make their home, to never be swayed from it again.

Those who try realize too late why Miguel was once called  Destroyer.

The jungle is old and vast and deep. Who knows what ancient diseases hapless outsiders might dig up, if they don't respect its depths?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minoan civilization, Ancient Rome, Anatolia, the Levant, and Egypt all had likely to certain ancient cultures of human sacrifice. They seemed to be rare and grave events, ended early in their history, but seemed to have existed all the same. There seems to have been a shift from literal to abstract sacrifice - such as clay servants being buried with Egyptian kings instead of sacrificed servants, and straw figures thrown into the Tiber instead of old men.
> 
> Apollo has several myriad origins. One of the earliest incarnations appears to be a plague god, explaining a god who rained down death through his arrows, one later given the power to call off the same ailments he called down. His name is possibly theorized to mean 'Destroyer.' Given his muddied but dire origins, how later myth remembers him as the taker of young boys... yeah, he most definitely had sacrifice in one ancient aspect or another. Artemis, his twin, does not always spare Iphigenia in those myths of her 'swapped out for a doe' sacrifice for winds to Troy.
> 
> In contrast, human sacrifice played a more central aspect of many Mesoamerican religions for many centuries. The El Dorado of the movie does not show the same zeal toward sacrifice one would expect of, say, the Aztecs of the same period. That suggests sacrifice is a much rarer and graver occasion, with only a few zealot like Tzekel-Kan really being all for it. I see them as another in transition, one that would have very soon made steps in their own greater interests if two idiots hadn't blundered their way into an early dismissal of what might have once been a wider tradition.

**Author's Note:**

> agnostos theos - the unknown god, a Greek practice that left some altars and offerings open to any and all possible gods willing to take it, even those not actively known to the bearer
> 
> "sei deo, sei deivae sanc" - paraphrased from a Latin inscription from a Roman altar operating under the same general principal as above, leaving it open for a god (or goddess) not known
> 
> Ancient pantheons were open to exchanging gods and stories, mashing them together and stealing bits to others. Apollo's origins, therefore, are really freaking complicated. The less defined the god, the more open to interpretation they could be. For figures that have really little actual stories attached to them... well ; ) One religion's chief sky god is another's general term for sky.


End file.
